wonderful you came by
by eccacia
Summary: Caitlin's a no-nonsense science major. Barry's the quintessential charming star athlete. When they're paired off and forced to interact in class, Caitlin's determined to resist his charms, but Barry's also pretty determined to get under her skin… It all boils down to a battle between head and heart, and Caitlin's not one to give in to her heart so easily. [College AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** Okay so ever since S2 premiere I really missed this ship so I started writing bits and pieces, like experimenting with Caitlin's character, playing up her social awkwardness and all, and before I knew it this au college!snowbarry thing was born... mehe. Title is from Nat King Cole's "Orange Colored Sky"

* * *

The first time Caitlin met Barry, she was wearing approximately one and a half pieces of clothing and was sprawled on the dank, muddy grass in a rather undignified position.

Suffice to say, if she had control over fate she definitely would not have chosen that moment to meet the love of her life. Not that she'd given it much thought, mind you. But she imagined it would've been vaguely romantic, like reaching for the same flask of preserved frog specimen at the same time, or at the very least casually meeting each other's eyes in class at the mention of recombinant DNA… But alas, she was not the master of her fate, and instead of her clean, academe-set romances, she had to deal with a romance that was 10% fluff and 90% mortification. She was sure that one pulling the strings must be some ancestor of Felicity's.

She digressed.

In any case, there she was, crouching under the bleachers, wearing jeans and a shirt with a huge tear from the hem to the underwire of her bra from having snagged it on a nail upon coming in. And it was one of her favourite DC shirts, too, one with the Flash facing off against Professor Zoom. With much grumbling—mostly permutations of curses and Felicity's name—she managed to tie it at her waist.

Afterwards she took a deep breath. Alright, I need a plan, she muttered. She was to locate a piece of paper attached to a GoPro camera. Since Felicity was careful with her tech, it wasn't likely that she would leave it on the floor. So either she taped it to the wall, or placed it inside a sturdy box.

Caitlin decided to go with walls first. She slowly backed up against one and placed her hands on it, groping the surface as she walked. It was pitch-black, and while she couldn't see anything, her fingers were running over strange bumps on the damp wall—probably week-old gum or condoms from couples who came here to make out, she thought, repulsed—and to make it worse, she was stepping on some very dubious substances. She groaned at the thought of having to clean her shoes when she got back to her room. _But_ then again, she _could_ make Felicity scrape them off from her shoes when it was her turn to give a dare… The thought made her feel slightly better. If she was feeling extra cruel, maybe she could make Felicity scrape it off with her bare hands—

Caitlin was not able to relish that thought for long, though, because she was startled by a crash coming from the tiny door leading out of the bleachers. Briefly she glimpsed a weak ray of afternoon sun that disappeared again when the door slammed close, and the next thing she knew something warm and hard had bludgeoned her down into the mud. She yelped upon landing awkwardly on her shoulder, and the warm, hard entity above her sprang away almost as quickly as it had collided into her.

"Crap! I'm sorry, are you hurt? Sorry, I didn't expect anyone to be here—wait, let me help you up—" In the dark, two warm hands touched hers, and on instinct she grasped them, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet.

"Uh, thanks," she muttered.

"No problem," the voice returned. "Um, sorry for crashing into you. Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," she said, even as she gave her shoulder an discreet experimental roll to check if it was dislocated. It seemed intact, but it would leave a bruise in the morning. "Uh, you? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

"Great."

"Yeah."

They both lapsed into an awkward silence. Caitlin shifted her weight to her left foot and tried to gather her thoughts.

First of all: Who in the world was this person? Sure, she was grateful that it wasn't a couple, but still... Maybe he was from a varsity, since this was their turf. And he seemed to have been running away from someone, judging from the force of their collision and the fact that he wasn't leaving yet after seeing that the place was already inhabited.

This further complicated her quest. She already badly wanted to go back to her room, first to take a bath (she was itchy from the grass, was covered in mud, and smelled like someone had just taken a huge dump on her), and then to plan her revenge on Felicity. But then if she walked away right now, that meant going back empty-handed, which meant another point for Felicity (currently the score was 14-15, in Felicity's favour). And Caitlin hated losing.

On the other hand, if she decided to complete the dare—she still had a little over half an hour, anyway—she needed to find that paper and camera… while in the presence of this person. So it was a choice between having a bath and conceding loss, and interacting with an unfamiliar human being. And as much as she hated losing, she didn't like the prospect of talking to someone, either. She had about as much patience with unfamiliar people as a cat and about as much social grace as a sack of potatoes.

While she weighed the pros and cons of each, the person cleared his throat beside her.

"Uh, my name is Barry, by the way. Um. Majoring in forensic science."

Well, then. It seemed she was forced to go for Operation: Interact with Unknown Specimen. Now she had to extract from him his purpose here to satisfy her curiosity and somehow use her feminine wiles to make him help her on her mission. Right, as if she had wiles. Even if she did, she doubted they were very feminine.

"Hello, Barry of forensic science," she said. "Caitlin of molecular biology."

"Hey Caitlin. So, you hang out here a lot?"

Ah, an attempt at a joke. He must be an agreeable person. It wouldn't be difficult to enlist his help, then.

"I could ask the same of you."

"Well, you know. Not really."

"Yeah, me neither."

"So… Why are you here?"

"You state your reason. I got here first."

He chuckled. "Alright. But don't tell anyone."

Caitlin knitted her brow. "What? Why not?"

"Because… I don't want everyone to know?"

"Well. That's problematic. I mean, if you can tell a complete stranger something that you wouldn't want everyone to know, and 'everyone' includes strangers, then what you want to keep secret can be told to everyone, which means that what your isn't a secret at all."

"Geez. What I was trying to say is that I felt like I could trust you."

"Based on what?"

"Your voice. And the fact that you're here, which means you're also hiding."

"I'm not hiding. But evidently you are."

"Wait, what? What're you doing here, then? You're not high, are you?"

Caitlin snorted. "Unfortunately not. Who're you hiding from?"

"Hey, tell me what you're doing here."

"You answer first. You were going to disclose everything to me, anyway."

"Fine, fine. No need to be so bossy."

"I am not bossy. I was merely restating your intentions."

He muttered something that wasn't meant to be addressed to her, but Caitlin heard it anyway. "Who's Linda?"

"What?"

"You muttered something like, 'Geez, she's worse than Linda'."

"Oh, you heard that? Sorry." He sounded sheepish.

"For what? I can't be offended by an allusion I can't comprehend."

"Good point. Well, Linda's my ex. And she's the manager of the track team. She was hounding me today for an interview with Central Times that I kept telling her I didn't want to do."

"Ah. So to avoid her, you hide here."

"Pretty much."

"I don't see how you made the comparison between me and Linda."

"Well, you're both bossy."

"What? But you've only known me for five minutes."

"Hey, first impressions last."

"Hm. So your first impression of her was that she was bossy? And despite that you were together?"

"To be honest, I can't remember. We were both drunk when… stuff happened."

Caitlin wrinkled her nose. Romantic activities of any sort—hand-holding, hugging, kissing, intercourse—always made her highly uncomfortable; she couldn't understand why swapping saliva with someone or having something inserted inside of you could be pleasurable. So she avoided places where she could see couples—i.e. parties—like the plague. The last time she went to one on Felicity's urging, she caught Oliver and her friend making out, and never in her life had she wished so feverishly for blindness.

"Spare me the details," she said. "Don't worry, your flight from your ex does not interest me sufficiently to merit the effort of telling other people." And anyway, her first objective in speaking to him—obtaining his reason for being here—was accomplished.

"How very nice of you."

She dismissed the sarcasm. "Will you be staying here for long?"

"Maybe for just another ten minutes. And hey, you haven't told me yet why you're here."

"I am now. It's a complicated arrangement, so I'll simplify it. I need your help in looking for something that my friend hid here." Caitlin briefly explained the competition to him, the object, and the time limit.

"You guys are crazy," he said incredulously. "But hey, sounds like a good way to spend my ten minutes."

"Does that mean you'll help?"

"Yeah, sure."

Caitlin grinned. "Lovely."

In the next two minutes, Caitlin tried to coax him into using the flashlight on his phone (she and Felicity had a rule of no personal gadgets during a mission, especially because Felicity was prone to cheating) so they could see the surroundings. But her companion protested by saying that he was keeping it off so that Linda couldn't reach him. Caitlin sighed in exasperation. "You have serious communication issues with your ex."

"Well, yeah, that's why she's my ex." She could hear the duh in his voice.

"How about you turn on your phone in airplane mode?"

"Are you sure she can't reach me?"

"Of course not. Don't be silly," she scoffed.

"Oh, now _I'm_ silly? I'm not the one groping around in the mud for some treasure hunt."

"It's not a treasure hunt. It's a competition."

"It's a child's game."

"It is _not_."

"You're taking it way too seriously. Your friend's only getting a point, right?"

"You're in the track team, aren't you? You of all people should know how much a point means."

"Yeah, but in the context of legitimate competitions. Sometimes you just have to know when to give up. I mean, it's obvious that you're friend's just giving you a hard time, and she's having a field day out of your misery."

Caitlin gasped. "How do you even win races with that attitude?"

"A race is a different from this—"

"No, it's not," Caitlin said petulantly. "This means as much to me as a race means to you. I'm sorry that not everyone subscribes to your idea of 'legitimate' competition."

"Are you mad? Hey, don't be mad." His tone shifted to teasing. "I wasn't insulting you or anything, it's just that, you know, this whole thing is so surreal. Making a friend under the bleachers who happens to be on some treasure hunt."

"It's a competition! And since when were we friends?"

"Ouch. After all this time with you in the dark, I think we should be something... more."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"What? No, I was teasing you."

"Please don't do that again."

He chuckled. "Lighten up, Caitlin."

He said her name. Caitlin scrunched her brow at the strange stirrings in her stomach, beginning the moment he teased her, intensifying up until this point that he said her name in such a smooth, low baritone. This was why she hated interacting with new people—everything was just so damn confusing, and she hated being confused. She had to redirect the conversation immediately. "If you turn on your flashlight, I'll consider being your friend."

He laughed. "Geez, fine. Airplane mode it is."

There was a brief shuffling noise in front of her, and in a few moments, blue light from his phone's tiny screen illuminated part of his face: first his dark brows and eyes, and a tuft of spiky brown hair; and then gradually, as her eyes adjusted, she was able to discern a facial structure that—she grudgingly admitted—wasn't entirely unpleasant to look at. Somehow she hadn't expected him to look so... down-to-earth, and so familiar.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" he said. The corner of his lips quirked up into a smirk. It was so strange now that the voice she had been speaking to belonged to a pair of lips, and the lips belonged to a face.

"What?"

"Can I see your face? I still don't know what you look like."

"What?" Caitlin repeated. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she felt suddenly, irrationally shy. The request seemed intimate, as if allowing him to see her face was equivalent to stripping naked. "Um. F-Fine. Just warn me when you're going to—hey!"

A beam of light hit her eyes, and she shut them tight in reflex; before her, Barry laughed an apology. "Sorry, I'll adjust the intensity. There."

She slowly opened her eyes again, and she saw him regarding her under the meagre light, his expression a mixture of amusement and... was that surprise? She couldn't tell. And she had the brief, inexplicable desire to know what he was thinking at that moment. Would his first impression of her still be bossy? She bit her lip.

"Your staring is making me uncomfortable."

"Yeah?" he grinned, looking positively wolfish, like he was up to something. "Well, I didn't expect... Never mind. Nice shirt, by the way."

Caitlin gasped, remembering that she tore her shirt awhile ago, and quite a bit of skin on her side was exposed. She quickly wrapped her arms around herself.

"For the record, I was referring to the graphic design, not the style."

"Sure," she muttered. "Anyway, we're looking for a box—"

"Is that it?"

"What? Where?"

Her companion bent to pluck something from the crevice behind her. Sure enough, it was a small cardboard box with a piece of white paper taped over it.

"Wow, that was quick."

"Yeah, well, that's kind of my specialty."

"How modest of you."

"Surely I don't deserve the sarcasm," he said teasingly, moving the box out of hear reach. Caitlin glared at him. "I'm helping you out here, if I must remind you."

"Give me the box."

"What do you say?" he drawled, as if speaking to a child. Caitlin was beginning to dislike him very, very much.

"Please."

"And?"

"For god's sake—just give it to me!"

She attempted to swipe at it again with one hand, the other still keeping the flap of her torn shirt closed, but he sidestepped her easily. Ugh, these jocks, Caitlin grumbled. All cocky bastards, the lot of them.

"Aaaand?"

"You're... amazing? Stupendous? God's gift to women? Ugh, just"—Caitlin attempted another swipe at it—"give—it—to—me."

"I was hoping for a thank you, but... that will suffice," he said.

Caitlin finally grabbed the box and glared at him. She then turned her attention to the white slip of paper. On it was a series of three images: an igloo, a nose, and a shadow with a question mark. "What is this supposed to mean?"

"Permission to look?" he said. Caitlin angled it towards him, and he stepped closer towards her. "Is this normally how her messages go?"

"Only sometimes."

"How do you usually interpret them? Decode the message, and then do what's written on it?"

"Yes. Her picture-messages typically follow a verb-noun formulation."

"Hm. Well, this question-marked shadow definitely means someone you don't know."

"I agree. How about... sticking ice in someone's nose?"

"Nah, I don't think so. Why use an igloo when ice cubes would've been more appropriate?"

"Good point."

They lapsed into thoughtful silence.

A few heartbeats later, he let out a very smug and self-satisfied "Mmmm." Caitlin rolled her eyes. Bastard. He evidently wanted to be indulged. "Well, what is it?"

He was grinning. "I know what means."

"I gather that much from your expression."

"It's 'eskimo-kiss a stranger'."

"Eskimo kiss? Does that involve actual physical contact?"

"No, it's telepathic."

Caitlin blinked at him. "So it does involve physical contact."

"Yeah, duh. It's when two people rub their noses together? Come on, everyone tried it at least once in elementary."

"Ugh. There's no way I'm doing that."

"What? Are you giving up? How do you win treasure hunts with an attitude like that?" he teased.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Compe—"

"Competition, I know, I know. I was kidding. So you're not doing it?"

"No."

"Even if I volunteer myself for the role of stranger?"

"What? Why?"

He shrugged. "Why not? I've helped you this far."

Caitlin glanced at the time on his phone. Fifteen minutes before time's up. She chewed on her bottom lip.

"What's the big deal, anyway? It's pretty easy to do."

"For you, maybe. But I'm squeamish with physical contact."

"Even with your parents?"

"My parents were not physically affectionate."

"Oooh, how Freudian. Maybe that's why you don't like it."

"Stop psychoanalyzing me," she grumbled. "I just don't prefer it, that's all."

"Well, we touched awhile ago, remember? When I crashed into you and helped you up?"

"That was unavoidable. This one, however, is under my control."

"Mmmm," he said. "Fascinating. You're literally the only person I know who's like this."

She rolled her eyes. "Go to the biology department. It's not as uncommon as you think."

"Wow. Have you ever had a boyfriend?" he said, and quickly amended, "Or girlfriend. You know. Just saying."

She stared at him. "Is that a rhetorical question?"

He laughed. Caitlin noticed how the edges of his eyes crinkled when he did, and that his irises were not exactly brown, but an earthy green. She started feeling strange again. "Yeah, I guess not. You know, maybe you're just reinforcing the dislike by trying so hard to avoid. I mean, nothing bad's gonna happen to you, and what's a little discomfort compared to a point, right?"

"I can't believe you're trying to convince me."

"Well, surprisingly, I'm having a lot of fun doing this."

Caitlin looked away from him. _Stupid pretty eyes_ , she grumbled. It was really messing up her thought process. But then, he did have a point. Her initial vehement dislike to the idea was beginning to wane, and it was probably because she never even entertained the idea of physical contact this long; she was so used to shoving it away the instant she thought of it, or shoving a person away the instant his or her skin touched hers. But then—and she was alarmed at this realization—she wasn't entirely averse to rubbing noses with him. She felt squeamish at the thought, but it didn't repel her as it should. It felt like the same kind of tolerance she had with Felicity or Cisco when they tried to hug her... Strange, because she only knew this guy for about twenty minutes, while she had known her two other friends since high school.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Caitlin looked at him, and quickly avoided his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay as in, I'll rub noses with you."

"Seriously? Wow, so I have the honor of being your first nose-rub."

"It's a dubious honor." She picked at the tape securing the lid of the box, and pulled the camera out. "It has to be recorded, though. But I assure you it'll be strictly confidential."

He looked amused. "Yeah, I don't mind."

She bit her lip. "I know you're doing me a favor, but can I set the conditions for this?"

"I am your slave," he said with a small bow.

"Okay. First, I have to initiate. And second, please don't touch me."

He folded one arm behind him, while the other held up his phone. "I swear I won't."

"Okay."

"I'm ready when you are."

Caitlin switched the camera on and took a deep breath. "Okay. I'm ready. Oh, can you close your eyes, too?"

He humored her and closed his eyes, but she could still see the laugh lines around them. She sighed. _Well, here goes nothing_.

She pressed the record button and stepped close enough to feel the heat from his body, but not so close that she touched his torso; she made sure to leave a handspan between them. But then there was the problem of reaching his nose—he was a lot taller than she expected, and even on her tiptoes she would have trouble reaching it. Frustrated, she said, "Can you tilt your head down a bit? You're too tall."

"Sure," he said just as he did, so that she felt his breath on her face. He smelled like peppermint and aftershave. Caitlin felt increasingly uncomfortable with the proximity. _Just get this over with. Just_ —she screwed her eyes shut and balled her fist and in one quick motion touched the tip of her nose with hers, and afterwards she pulled away so fast that she almost tripped and fell.

"Well? Wasn't as bad as you thought, right?"

Caitlin felt her cheeks burning. Even an arm's length from him, the smell of peppermint and aftershave lingered, and his eyes were twinkling, and she was suddenly self-conscious that she smelled and looked like shit. "Regardless, it won't happen again. But... thank you."

"No problem. Will I be seeing you around?"

"Perhaps only in other small, dark spaces."

"Was that an invitation?"

"What? No. It's synonymous to 'never again.'"

He grinned. "I'm up for the challenge."

Up for the challenge? Meaning he wanted to see her after this? Caitlin felt strange again. "Anyway, I really have to run. Bye."

"Bye. Good luck with winning—"

By the time he said it, Caitlin was already halfway out the door, sprinting towards her dorms, and trying to convince herself that the beating of her heart was due to the exertion of running and not something as silly and ludicrous and maddeningly mundane as a _crush_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** Thank you very much for the reviews, faves, and alerts! :) I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

* * *

The second time Caitlin met Barry, contrary to the "never again" that she had prophesied, turned out to be a mere two days from the bleachers incident.

Now this was how it happened. It was the first day of the semester, and as usual, Caitlin came into class thirty minutes before the bell. She settled on a seat close to the door and the counter where the materials and reagents were stored, brought out her electronic copy of the book for the class, and reviewed the experiment they would perform.

After around fifteen minutes, her coursemates began trickling in, and because Molecular Biology had a grand total population of twelve, she was familiar with everyone. In fact, she could predict the order in which they arrived just based on their time of arrival and the sound of their footsteps.

Like now, for instance: it was twenty minutes to bell and the person approaching the classroom had light, even steps. Caitlin could also make out the sound of keys clinking as the person approached. The only one who drove a car in her course was Bette, and she lived far from school so she always arrived early. Without looking up from her notes, Caitlin said, "Hey Bette," and received confirmation when the voice that greeted back—"How's it going, Cait?"—matched the name she called.

She gave herself a point. She played this game once with Cisco because he also knew her coursemates—they played weird hipster video games together—but he said her guessing game was incredibly lame and boring (strangely after she won the first five points straight). Since he was obviously a sore loser, Caitlin would tell him to shove a lemon in his mouth. (A lemon because sore was a homonym for sour. She was quite proud of herself for that pun, because it was one of the very few she made that sent Cisco into fits of laughter.)

The second person, though, proved to be a problem. The footsteps were light and the gait was languid, something characteristic of people with long legs, but aside from those there were no other distinct sound markers. It was _impossible_ for her to forget someone's sound markers, so he or she was probably someone new. And the only new person expected the visiting professor, Dr. Wells. So perhaps it was Dr. Wells…

"Oh, hey Caitlin!"

Caitlin froze. _No_ bleeding _way._ After having spent a considerable amount of time in the darkness with only his voice, she had of course recognised it immediately, but for the first time in her life, she actually wished that she was wrong, because if it really _was_ him, then she would have to explain to herself why she was feeling confused about being mortified at the memory of the "the incident", and why she was disgustingly hopeful to see him again.

Great. Now even her emotions had emotions. What in the bleeding world was happening?

"I'm guessing you're here for Dr. Wells' class? So much for never seeing me again, huh?"

Maybe if she shut her eyes she could keep pretending that he didn't exist and that therefore "the incident" never happened; but when the smell of peppermint and aftershave diffused in the air between them, she couldn't indulge herself in further self-denial. It _was_ him.

"Are you ignoring me?" he sounded amused. "Or are you imagining that we're back under the bleachers, doing unspeakable things in the dark…"

On reflex, Caitlin's eyes flew open to glare at him.

He laughed. "Gotcha. Relax, I'm kidding."

Right. Caitlin was anything but relaxed. Upon seeing him, her conversation with Felicity two days ago came back to her unbidden: After she had dropped off the GoPro at Felicity's desk and gathered her bath supplies, she had gone to the showers on their floor. She expected that Felicity would view the video alone and grudgingly award her with a point when she returned from her bath… But she hadn't even been in the bathroom for two minutes when her friend started screeching in the hallway.

"CAITLIIIIIIIN! CAITLIN SNOW! WHERE IN THE MOTHER ARE YOU?"

"Lis? What the—"

Her footsteps became louder as she approached her stall. "Is this you? Oh, yeah, these are your bathroom slippers. Just making sure I'm not spazzing at the wrong door. But oh my god, Cait. Do you _realize_ who you just eskimo-kissed? It's _the_ Barry Allen. Barry- _frickin_ -Allen!"

"You do realize that by adding 'frickin' in his name does not make me any more enlightened than I apparently should be."

"God, Barry Allen as in, the star of the track team? Poster boy of Central Uni? No? Oh come _on_ , his face is plastered on billboards along the highway going to Starling City! I think it was some energy drink or whatever, but anyway not relevant at this point. What I'm saying, Cait, is that you just got a campus celebrity to do your bidding! Like, what the actual frick! Is there something you're not telling me, like maybe you're secretly seducing hotties in your free time? Is _that_ why you're always holed up in the lab? Like, you've been entertaining other _labs_ in your lab?"

If Caitlin were to graph the movement of sensible thought in Felicity's rambles, it would be a very, very steep downward-sloping line, and by the end of this particular ramble Felicity had hit a point outside of the graph in her mind's eye. To rectify this immediately, Caitlin hastened to explain how they met, relaying the entire debacle and leaving out only the tiny detail on why he was there.

"Interesting," Felicity said. Caitlin couldn't see her face but she could practically feel her smugness emanating from the flimsy wooden door. She vaguely wondered why Felicity couldn't have waited for her to finish showering, because speaking to her while stark naked was extremely uncomfortable. "So what do you think of him?"

"He was… cooperative?"

"No, no, as in, feeling-wise. Or aesthetics-wise."

Caitlin paused. "Ummm—"

"Oh my god, you _like_ him! You stopped and said 'ummm' instead of 'nothing'!"

"I was going to say—"

"Nuh-uh. That was _so_ a confession. I am a genius for coming up with this. Planning the next dares will be so much fun…"

Felicity sauntered off, cackling gleefully.

Caitlin saw her entire life flash before her eyes.

When she had gotten over worrying what exactly Felicity might do to her—or make her do—Caitlin attempted to engage in introspection about her suspiciously smitten-schoolgirl reaction to this Barry Allen, if only to disprove Felicity's absurd conclusion of her non-confession. But then the very idea of attraction made her cringe—it might lead to contemplating physical attraction, and she couldn't tolerate her own company if she pursued that train of thought—so she abandoned it in favour of reciting the elements on the periodic table to calm down.

Right now, though, she was so discomfited that she couldn't even remember what came after lithium. _Stupid green eyes. Stupid black polo on his stupid broad shoulders._ "What are you doing here?" she bit out.

"To see you," he said blithely, taking a notebook out from his varsity bag. "And, you know, nothing at all to do with taking a required class for my major."

She decided to let the first comment pass, because otherwise she would let on how flustered it made her. "But only molecular biology students take this class in the first semester."

"Yeah, but this is the only class that Dr. Wells will be teaching, so I _had_ to take it. I mean, how cool is it to learn cell and molecular biology from the person spearheading research in biochemical engineering? Right? Right? Come on, you're the nerdier one here. Share my enthusiasm."

"You _know_ Dr. Wells?"

"'Course. Founder of STAR Labs, with a PhD in quantum physics and biochemical engineering. Currently researching the effects of particle accelerators on living organisms. Why do you look so surprised? You didn't think I knew this, huh. Because I'm just some typical jock."

Caitlin was, in fact, thinking that. To know the name Dr. Wells was normal—he was a bit of a celebrity in Central City—but to actually rearrange one's subjects in order to take a class that Dr. Wells was teaching… well, that was a different brand of nerd. Caitlin could hardly reconcile this with the fact that he had an actual billboard along a highway, a few televised interviews, and a fanpage ran by rabid high school girls who haven't quite mastered capitalisation (none of which she actually visited—she just typed his name in Google and went through the first page of results, just to, you know, check if Felicity was telling the truth).

But instead she told him, "Well, I don't think that typical jocks flee from their exes by hiding under the bleachers."

"Hey!" he said. "Well, I don't think that typical nerds eskimo-kiss complete strangers."

Her cheeks flamed, and he grinned wolfishly. "I only did it because it was a precondition for winning," she said tersely. "Nerds are very competitive."

He laughed. "How'd that go, by the way? Did you get the point?"

Caitlin stiffened. Felicity had actually conceded three, but he didn't need to know that. "Yes. Thank you."

"No problem. Glad to be of service. By the way, do you have a lab partner?"

"Yes. We've had the same partners since first year."

"Aw, man. Can I join you?"

She blinked. "No."

"What? Why not?" He feigned hurt. "After all we've been through—"

"We've only been acquainted for a total of thirty minutes—"

"—and after taking advantage of me—"

"—it's not 'taking advantage' if you volunteered for it—"

"—how could you be so cold-hearted as to refuse a friend—"

"—I'm not cold-hearted, I'm just being practical—"

"—wait, we _are_ friends, right? Or are you still considering it?"

Caitlin paused. "I suppose it's not an entirely unpleasant arrangement."

"Gee. What an exciting way to describe friendship."

"I could take it back—"

"Hey, I didn't say I was against this 'not-entirely-unpleasant arrangement'. Well, since we've established that, can I be part of your pair?"

"No."

"Still no? Come on, don't I have like, friendship rights or something?"

"Friendship isn't the only factor to considering whether or not you can be part of our pair," Caitlin replied. "For one, the usual protocol for lab is either work in pairs or work alone, so having a group of three is structurally impossible. Thus my 'no'. But even if it were possible to have a group of three, I would still decline, because empirically speaking, no one can stand being my partner or Hartley's partner for long."

"Why not?"

"Well." She shifted in her seat. "According to popular consensus, it's because I'm anal and Hartley's an asshole."

He grinned. "Yeah? Well, I think I can handle anal."

"I don't think you could."

"Never know until we try, right?"

She glared at him. "The innuendoing isn't appreciated."

"Who said I was speaking in innuendoes?" he said innocently. "Gee, get your mind out of the gutter, Caitlin."

" _Your_ mind was in there first," she said testily.

"So now yours is in it, too. What do you think our minds are doing together in the gutter?"

Caitlin huffed. "I won't debase myself by further participation in this conversation."

He burst out laughing. "Hey, I was just kidding. It's just so fun to rile you up."

"Has it crossed your mind that maybe I don't enjoy being 'riled up'?"

"Yeah, it's crossed my mind," he shrugged. "But then," he added, smirking, "I don't think my riling you up is an entirely unpleasant arrangement."

Thankfully for Caitlin's sanity, Dr. Wells chose that moment to arrive. A collective, reverent hush fell over the room. The only noise came from Barry, who couldn't seem to stop bouncing in his seat in excitement.

Dr. Wells pulled out an attendance sheet from his envelope and surveyed the class. "We will begin the first experiment today. I understand that everyone already has a partner?"

"Sir," Barry raised his hand. "I'm not part of this block, so I don't have one."

Dr. Wells glanced at the attendance. "Ah, Mr. Allen from forensic science. Who's Mr. Rathaway's partner?"

Caitlin raised her hand. "I am, Sir. Hartley will be running late today."

In truth, however, Hartley was _always_ late for lab classes, because the first part of lab consisted of a short lecture, which he claimed to already know and which was therefore a waste of his time. Besides, the only times that he did come on time, he would attack the professor with such aggressive, rapid-fire questioning that the professor would eventually cry or send him out. But Caitlin tolerated him because he performed experiments with a professional, no-nonsense efficiency, and he was the only one in class whom she hadn't driven crazy with her meticulousness. They weren't friends, but they understood each other's neuroses and respected each other's work ethic, and they alwaysgot As for lab—which, in a sense, was way better than being friends.

"Tell Mr. Rathaway that I do not tolerate tardiness or disrespectful behaviour, and that I do not hesitate to expel students," Dr. Wells said, snapping on a pair of gloves. Caitlin cringed. Hartley's reputation sure did precede him. "Ms. Snow, you will work with Mr. Allen. Mr. Rathaway will work alone."

Caitlin's jaw dropped. Barry turned to look at her triumphantly.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Snow?"

Caitlin despaired. She wanted to say that this whole thing was problem—not because she would be distracted by Barry's stupid peppermint-and-aftershave smell, or his pretty green eyes, or his broad shoulders, of course not, god forbid, _really_ _—_ but because she didn't know how he worked, and unfamiliarity bred miscommunication, and miscommunication led to mishaps and slip-ups, which in turn led to a grade that wasn't an A if she didn't pick up on his slack, and not getting an A meant not getting a high GPA, which meant not impressing Dr. Wells, which meant not getting a job at STAR Labs—which, in Caitlin's books, was the end of the world. So, yes, it was a bleeding problem, but of course she couldn't say that, because he _was_ her future employer and protesting might get her expelled.

So she settled for a terse "No, Sir."

Barry grinned at her. "Guess you're stuck with me. This is going to be so much fun."

Caitlin groaned. It was going to be a _looong_ day.

* * *

Barry Allen was officially the most infuriating partner that Caitlin ever had the misfortune of having.

Case in point: "Hey, Caitlin, what did the substrate say to the enzyme?"

She tried to ignore him and instead concentrated on locating the paramecium in the microscope's field of view.

"Come on, humor me. Ask me what it is."

"What?" she said, exasperated.

He leaned in towards her, and said in a low baritone, "We fit like lock and key."

He was even worse than Cisco. She stared at him. "What if the substrate and enzyme weren't complementary? Then the enzyme would have to force the fit, but I suppose your pick-up line would fail to be romantic if you don't conveniently overlook that fact."

He pouted. "Really? Not even a chuckle?"

"I would laugh at factually correct jokes," she said dismissively. "Are you finished with the diatom?"

"Yup. Here."

Caitlin perused his drawing. "You didn't label the illustration."

"I… did, in a manner," he said, pointing to the margin of his notebook.

"But this is a drawing of… armour?"

"Not just _any_ armour," he clarified. "If you read Arrow, you'll probably recognise Ray Palmer's ATOM exosuit. I put a number two beside it. And voila, diatom! See what I did there? Oh, is that a smile I see on mademoiselle Caitlin Snow's face? I should take a picture of this momentous event! Wait, let me get my phone—ow, I was kidding, don't hit me—"

Caitlin composed herself. This was maddening—she went from irritation to amusement in a matter of seconds, from contemplating how bad his jokes were to how adorable it actually was, and she wasn't getting any work done properly this way. "You'll still have to label it correctly."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let me see the diatom again."

"What, you don't trust me?"

"I… do," she said. "But I trust myself more."

"Fine, two can play at that game. I'll check your paramecium."

"Help yourself."

"Do you have a name for it?"

"For my paramecium? Why would I name it?"

"You don't? Everyone in my zoology class named their microbes, so I assumed it's a thing—oh, I call dibs on naming my cheek cell. We're sampling my cheek cell, right? I'm calling it Barry Junior."

"How inventive of you," she said dryly. She checked the diatom under low- and high-power objectives, and was mildly surprised that his illustrations were close to the actual. Not as detailed as she would like, nor was it as detailed as Hartley's work, but she supposed it would pass for a low-bracket A.

"Or maybe I should call it Bartholomew. It's my first name, but no one ever uses it."

"Your Barry is short for Bartholomew?"

"Yeah. What did you think it was?"

Caitlin discreetly labelled his illustrations with the diatom's scientific name. "Bar…ney?"

"Aw, really? Do I really look like a Barney to you?"

Caitlin made a noncommittal noise. She reached for the calculator in her backpack and rechecked his computation of the magnification of illustration.

"Barney as in, the purple dinosaur or Barney as in, Ted's BFF in _How I Met_?"

"I'm only familiar with the purple dinosaur."

"Seriously? So when you heard 'Barry', you immediately associated me with Barney the dinosaur. Your first impression of me was a _singing purple dinosaur_. Geez, has everyone's first impression of me been a singing purple dinosaur?"

"Hm?" He was looking at her expectantly, with such pathetic distress on his face that she couldn't suppress a smirk. She decided that she rather liked distraught Barry over confident, innuendoing Barry. (Where, of course, she meant "like" in a purely objective preferential way.) At least when he wasn't teasing her or being cocky as heck, she was in control of her emotions and reactions, and she didn't need to lash out in confused irritation. "Do you realise that you're distressed over conclusions that you yourself have drawn?"

"I—what? But you said—"

She raised a brow. "I said that I was familiar only with the purple dinosaur, in response to the two options of Barney that you suggested. I never said that it was my first impression of you. Actually, the only reason I said 'Barney' was because it's phonetically similar to Barry."

"Oh. _Oh._ So… I'm not a singing purple dinosaur."

Caitlin paused. "It's not unimaginable."

" _Hey_ ," he gasped. "You're smirking! Stop imagining it!"

Caitlin found that she was liking flustered Barry. Maybe this was what he meant when he said he enjoyed riling her up. "I can imagine whatever I want."

"Well, why don't you imagine Dr. Wells in a pink tutu?"

" _Barry is a dinosaur who lives in our imagination_ —"

"—or you could just imagine me naked in a jacuzzi—"

"— _and when he_ _'_ _s_ _—_ what? Ew, _no_ , disgusting—"

"—I didn't know disgust made you blush, Caitlin Snow—"

"—I am _not_ blushing—"

"—denial makes you blush even harder—"

"—ugh, can we please get back to work?"

Barry smirked. Well, he was back to being a smug bastard. So much for thinking he was likeable. "Suit yourself. What's next?"

She glared at him. "Preparing the wet mount for hydrilla."

"Cool. I'll do it."

Caitlin started reciting the elements of the periodic table to herself to dispel thoughts of Barry naked in a jacuzzi. She tried to convince herself that the mental image was disgusting, but another pesky, traitorous part of her brain was whispering that _he did have a very_ _…_ aesthetically pleasing _physique from all that running_ , and _wouldn_ _'_ _t it be absolutely wonderful to run your fingers over those corded muscles on his back_ _—_ beryllium! Right, beryllium came after lithium, and then boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine…

She was going through the transition metals when he came back with the sorriest excuse of a slide she had ever seen.

"What _is_ this?"

"Hydrilla?" he supplied.

She frowned at it. "Here, draw the paramecium. I'll prepare another mount."

"What's wrong with mine?"

"Everything. The specimen isn't even in the middle of the slide, there are air bubbles—"

"So?" Caitlin walked up to the materials and reagents counter, with Barry right behind her, looking perplexed. "It doesn't really make a difference. We'll still be able to see the cells, anyway."

"I'll feel more at ease if I redo it. It won't take more than a minute—"

Barry reached for the beaker with hydrilla and lake water before she could and held it high above her head. "I'll do it again, if that'll make you happy."

He was smirking at her, and the treacherous part of her brain—the part that was probably possessed by Felicity—was composing a running commentary on how fine he looked, leaning casually against the counter, his body all hard planes and angles, and she really did not need that this moment—or at any moment, for that matter. "Oh come _on_ , just let me do it, it'll appease my supposed anal-retentive id a lot faster—" Caitlin swiped at the beaker, but even if she jumped her fingers only grazed the bottom.

He grinned down on her. "Isn't this situation familiar?"

She glared at him. "The beaker, please."

"I wonder what kind of kiss you'll be stealing from me next…"

Fuming, Caitlin lunged at his forearm, hoping to force his wrist down so she could reach the beaker, but unfortunately she had pulled too hard and the next thing she knew Barry lost his balance and she lost her balance and the entire beaker of hydrilla and lakewater spilled on her hair and her neck—

For a heartbeat everything was still. The first thing that Caitlin thought of was that she wasn't going to get an A for this class. The next thing she considered was that Dr. Wells would probably never hire her for STAR Labs, so she needed to find another career fast, and maybe in the meantime while she was dirt-poor she could inconspicuously bum at Oliver's garage (if he and Felicity were still together) and live off the scraps from his table—

"Mr. Allen, Ms. Snow, care to explain what's happening there?"

Caitlin flinched. Eating scraps from Oliver's table seemed very, _very_ appealing right now.

* * *

"Hey, Caitlin, I'm really sorry. I swear I never intended this to happen, I was really just teasing you so you'd lighten up and all, because you seemed so serious…"

He trailed off. Caitlin was still decidedly and petulantly against speaking to him, even if he had lent her his varsity jacket to change into. Huddled in a stall in the comfort room, she finished plucking the last string of hydrilla from her hair and from her skin. She peeled her lab coat and shirt off and was upset to find a mild rash blooming on her neck. Since hyrdilla was a kind of weed, she supposed that it grew in microbe-infested lakewater, and said microbes were currently crawling all over her skin. _Great_.

"Uh, if it helps, I'll talk to Dr. Wells later and tell him it was all my fault. Lab performance grades are individual, anyway."

Caitlin regarded his varsity jacket uncertainly. It was a dark red with gold accents and with "ALLEN" emblazoned on the back, and even as she held it at arm's length from her, the his distinct peppermint-and-aftershave smell wafted to her nose.

Caitlin chewed on her bottom lip. She may be daft when it came to social cues and conventions, but she definitely knew that wearing a girl wearing a guy's jacket highly suggested that she was"his bitch", as Felicity would put it. Caitlin disagreed with the term, because obviously the girl might just be a friend that the guy so gallantly offered his jacket to because she was cold, or some other faux-chivalric reason, but she supposed the general sentiment was that the girl and the guy were intimately acquainted. And while he did lend his jacket because it was an emergency and because it was technically his fault, she still felt that wearing it was wrong, because she wasn't the kind of person to him that wearing the jacket would suggest. It felt like she was pretending to be someone she wasn't.

That and her wearing it would fuel unnecessary speculation. And if what Felicity said was true and he was as popular as she claimed he was, then Caitlin wanted to avoid gossip at all costs. She definitely did not want to be branded a fangirl or a groupie.

As of now, though, she didn't really have much of a choice. Dr. Wells was giving them an hour to finish the rest of the experiment, and they weren't even half done…

"Hey, Caitlin. What did the postsynaptic cell say to the neurotransmitter?"

Maybe she could wear the jacket now, leave her shirt here to dry, and come back for it right after the experiment ended. She supposed it was better than waffling here in indecision, and definitely better than wearing his jacket while she walked back to the dorms.

She took a deep breath, slipped it on, and zipped it all the way up so it would hide the rash. It was two sizes too big and the hem reached mid-thigh, and her cheeks were burning because now she could smell him on herself and she wasn't wearing anything but her bra under his jacket and it wasn't supposed to mean anything but she couldn't help imagining scenarios where it _meant_ something—

 _BERYLLIUM!_ shrilled the rational part of her brain. Right, right, she was being irrational, she had an experiment to finish, and she was just probably overthinking. This didn't mean anything to Barry, because for bleeding sake they had only met and he was popular and he probably lent his jacket to a million other girls or a million other girls probably bought his jacket from sports merchandise stores so this was really nothing special.

"Cait?"

Caitlin hung her shirt on the door of the stall—she doubted anyone would steal a shirt—and took another breath to steel herself. _I have an experiment to finish. I have an experiment to finish._

"What did the postsynaptic cell say?" she said, cool as can be, sweeping out of the bathroom.

Startled, Barry turned around. His eyes seemed to turn a shade darker when he saw her—but she wasn't sure if she had just imagined it, because in the next moment his expression cleared and he was donning his usual smirk. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and gave her a look that seemed more like a caress. Caitlin suppressed a shiver.

"It said," he intoned, tilting his head down until his lips hovered near her lips, close enough for her to feel his hot breath on her skin but not close enough to touch her, "'You turn me on.'"

Caitlin moved away from him, feeling a strange mixture of arousal and discomfort, her heart pounding so hard she felt like it would leap into her throat. "Neurotransmitters can also turn them off," she managed to say.

He gave her a wolfish grin. "Not if they're excitatory."

She frowned and muttered, "I liked you better when you were being contrite."

He laughed, and suddenly the tension between them just moments ago dissipated. "I really am sorry, though. I swear I'll talk to Dr. Wells."

"Okay. Thank you for lending me your jacket."

His tone softened. "No problem."

* * *

Caitlin felt a few stares on her when she entered, but other than that, the rest of the class passed without incident. She had expected Hartley to arrive, though, and was mentally preparing a speech to appease his tantrum, but it turned out that he didn't show up at all, which was strange even for him, but she wasn't inclined to worry on his account.

She and Barry were able to finish the experiment by the end of the class with only two or three more terrible jokes on Barry's end. Once they finished cleaning the glassware, they approached Dr. Wells' desk, wearing identical looks of shame. "We're sorry for the incident today, Dr. Wells," Barry began.

"Yes, about that," he said dismissively. "From what I understand, you've just met today." _In a manner of speaking,_ Caitlin thought to herself. "So I expected a little difficulty in your dynamic, but I don't appreciate your bickering like gradeschoolers."

"It won't happen again," Barry said, at the same time that Caitlin uttered "I'll try my best to ignore him."

"Hey!" Barry exclaimed. Caitlin gave him a pointed look.

"Children," Dr. Wells warned, in a tone that sounded suspiciously playful. "However, that wasn't the reason why I wanted to speak with you."

Caitlin knitted her brow. "It's not?"

"Of course not," he said. "You're both too old for reprimanding. What I really wanted to discuss was your respective lines of research…"

In the next few minutes, Dr. Wells proceeded to explain, to Caitlin's growing disbelief, that he had heard from the department that they were already working on their undergraduate theses as early as now (Caitlin mused that Barry didn't seem like the type to start early, but she had definitely been experimenting in the lab during her free time—not seducing hotties, as Felicity had accused), and that he was quite interested in their topics—recombinant DNA on Caitlin's part, and optimisation of luminol photography for blood in crime scenes on Barry's.

"I'm afraid that your efforts might be frustrated by this university's lack of facilities," he said. "So I'm offering you the opportunity to experiment in STAR Labs. Given that, of course, you inform me a week ahead of time, and that you will credit STAR Labs in your output."

"No way!" Barry breathed. "Is this shit for real? —Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to curse, please don't take back the offer—"

Caitlin was less subdued in expressing her excitement, but she felt a silly smile on her face, and the warmth of happiness settling in her chest.

Eventually, Dr. Wells gave them a B-minus for that experiment, which still bothered Caitlin because she wasn't used to such a low grade—the last time she got a B-minus was during her only mandatory physical education class in high school, and honestly she was surprised she even reached B-minus in that class, what with her dismal attempts at basketball—but in the end, she supposed it all turned out fine.

* * *

It was only during their walk back to the comfort room where she had left her shirt, and after Barry had expended all his energy racing down the hallways, that he noticed the rash peeking out of his jacket's collar. "Is that a rash?"

Caitlin tugged the collar up. "Kind of."

" _Kind of?_ _"_ he reached for it. "Let me see—"

Caitlin evaded his hand. "What for? It's not like you'll be able to diagnose it—"

"I've had my fair share of rashes, so let me see—"

"—ugh, don't _touch_ me—"

Barry held his hands behind his head. "Okay, okay, I won't. Just, can I see it, please?"

Caitlin reluctantly inched the zipper down until a little below her clavicle. Across her neck and spreading down her chest were angry-red bumps the size of mosquito bites, and Caitlin saw Barry flinch at the sight. "Looks like swimmer's itch," he said. "Although I didn't know it could get that bad from such a small amount of water."

"My skin's always been sensitive to allergens, so it's not entirely your fault."

"Still, I'm sorry for fooling around. I'll make it up to you next time," he promised. "And hey, from what I remember, you were the one who reached for my hand."

"I was reaching for the beaker. Your hand was in the way."

"Sure it was. I bet you unconsciously wanted to touch me."

Caitlin rolled her eyes. "I bet you're projecting and you're the one who wants me to touch you."

"I bet your unconscious wants me to project that I want you to touch me."

"I bet your unconscious is projecting that it wants me to project—god, never mind. This is a completely futile exercise."

"Ha, I win!"

"But wasn't a competition!" Caitlin exclaimed. "Besides, _I_ was the first one who realised we were trapped in a loop—"

Caitlin stopped speaking when she noticed that Barry's gaze had shifted onto something behind her. His expression hardened.

"Linda?" he said. "What are you doing here?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Flash, or _Cell and Molecular Biology: Concepts and Experiments_ by Gerald Karp.

 **Notes** : Omg, thank you so much for the reviews! I was really overwhelmed by the response for the last chapter. You guys are the best! Sooo here's chapter 3. Sorry I don't update fast, I've been so busy in school since we're approaching the end of the sem. Anyway, I'll see you all at the end (please read the endnotes).

* * *

" _Linda?" he said. "What are you doing here?"_

For a few moments, the significance of the name completely escaped Caitlin. To be fair, she wasn't very good with names, because, in the first place, she didn't meet a lot of people, and of the people that she did meet, there were even fewer that she encountered regularly. She only had a total of two friends in college—who were incidentally her only friends in high school—and then there was Bette, and Hartley, and other male acquaintances from her course whose conversational arsenal consisted of video games, hate on the latest Apple device, and thinly-veiled references to someone's porn stash.

So, yes, she was sure that none of _them_ were named Linda.

And then she realised that the fact that another living human being had witnessed her in Barry's jacket should be sufficient cause for alarm—she was going to ruin her anonymity (and maybe Barry's reputation, if he cared for things like that) if this got out…

She gulped and furtively tried to make herself inconspicuous by slouching further into the jacket.

"Barry," said the steely-edged voice behind her, "can we talk?"

The speaker's tone indicated that she wouldn't take no for an answer despite having asked a question, and something suddenly clicked in Caitlin's mind. Snippets of her conversation with Barry under the bleachers came back to her: _Geez, she's worse than Linda—Linda's my ex and the manager of the track team—well, you're both bossy—_

She winced. So Linda was Barry's bossy ex. No wonder Barry was on edge all of a sudden…

Caitlin fervently wished for a black hole. And that it would suck her in and that she would disappear from this earth, preferably forever.

"Can it wait? I'm kind of in the middle of something—"

"No, we're not," Caitlin hissed.

"—oh, by the way, this is Caitlin."

Caitlin stiffened and gave him a glare that promised a slow death.

 _Sorry,_ he mouthed. _Help me out here._

 _I will maim you,_ she mouthed back, before turning to face Linda. Said woman was smiling at her in a curiously strained way, but even then she was still very pretty (well, it wasn't as if she expected a former girlfriend of Barry's to be any less gorgeous): She was sporting a bob and had subtle make-up on, and she was wearing one of those fashionable, form-fitting, one-piece top-and-pants things that would have looked like pajamas on Caitlin on the off-chance that she would ever wear them—

Caitlin realized with a start that she had mentally been cataloging Linda's physical characteristics in conjunction to her own—Linda's chic bob versus her straight, mousy hair; Linda's confident posture versus her couch-potato slouch; Linda's smooth, rosy skin versus the rash burning on her pasty neck…

She knew that she was no head-turner, but this had never really bothered her. She went through high school relatively unscathed by braces and pimples and bullies, and so her physical appearance had never been the source of significant teenage angst. In fact, there was only one time that she did consider the plainness of her appearance slightly bothersome, and it was a few days before Prom. She consulted Felicity about it and in response her friend had asked, "Cait, what would you rather be: pretty or smart?"

Caitlin had felt the question unfair to pretty people, and had secretly thought _what if I want to be both, would that be so bad?_ But she understood the wisdom in Felicity's rhetorical question, and that was the end of the matter.

But now the cold feeling of inadequacy was coiling and tightening around her chest. She felt this way when she didn't get As, but even then she knew she could do something about it, like study harder. But in this case, she knew there wasn't much she _could_ do with her physical appearance. And it wasn't only physical appearance—Linda suddenly seemed to possess all the traits she lacked: Linda was prettier, wittier, more confident, more sociable—and the intelligence that Caitlin had always taken secret pride in seemed stale and paltry in comparison to what she imagined as Linda's vibrant personality.

But then, why should it matter? Caitlin had been around gorgeous, confident girls before—Oliver's social circle, for example, from that party Felicity had dragged her to—and while she was very much aware that she was often underdressed and under-ornamented compared to them, the comparison remained a detached observation, instead of an observation internalised and ruminated on until it festered into insecurity.

Was this because she wanted to be what Linda had been to Barry, but felt it was impossible…?

Caitlin shook her head and quickly attributed the flaws in her thought process to the microbes that were burrowing into her skin—they were probably secreting some chemicals that were interfering with her brain chemistry.

She tried not to think of Barry's neurotransmitter joke by reciting the periodic table backwards.

"Hi, I'm Linda Park."

"Hello," Caitlin said.

Linda held out her hand, and Caitlin very reluctantly took it. She didn't know if it was just her imagination or if she just wasn't used to shaking hands, but she swore that Linda's clasp was brutal. "I'm sorry. It was rude of me to interrupt—"

"Oh, not at all," Caitlin cut in, at the same time that Barry said, "Caitlin was just showing me—"

They both fell silent and looked at each other, and Barry had a look of such naked desperation on his face that Caitlin came to the conclusion that he was a terrible, terrible liar and could not lie to save his ass from his ex. In the face of an impending confrontation, all his earlier glibness had curiously disappeared.

Linda prompted, "Caitlin was showing you…?"

"—a video of turtles copulating," she blurted out.

Barry's brows shot up, while Linda knotted hers in confusion.

Well. Caitlin figured she couldn't very well say "the rash on my neck", because that might make Linda suspicious of what _else_ she might have shown to Barry under his jacket, so in a fit of panic her mind had reached for the day-old memory of Cisco saying, _Cait, I have to show you this video of turtles copulating, I swear it's the best conversation-starter_ ever _…_

"Turtles… copulating?" Linda said dubiously.

"Yeah, it's, ah, for our next class," Barry supplied. "It's, ah, very fascinating. Hey Caitlin, do you have it?"

"Yes," Caitlin said, fishing her phone from her jeans. She should probably thank Cisco for downloading the video on her phone yesterday, but she hadn't watched the video yet since he had been bothering her while she was studying for lab. But how bad could it be? It was probably a very scientific, educational clip…

When she pressed play, however, and peculiar turtle sex noises came on in full volume, she became a devout believer of Murphy's law. She cringed as she watched Linda's brows inch slowly towards her hairline and Barry slowly turning pink from trying to hold in his laughter.

Bastard. She petulantly decided that she wasn't going to stand around for the next two minutes watching slow turtle sex and listening to the accompanying turtle grunts and moans with the boy she had very ambivalent feelings towards and his gorgeous ex.

She gave Barry a pointed look. "Anyway, Barry, I'll just send you the video," she said.

He seemed to be determined to drive Linda away, because he responded with a pleading, puppy-dog look and a "Can I just copy it from you now? The file's too big…"

She avoided his eyes. "It's searchable on YouTube. And, I, um, have to use the comfort room," she added hastily. "Goodbye."

"Okay," Linda said. From the look on her face Caitlin guessed that she wasn't convinced by their sorry attempt at an excuse. "Nice meeting you."

"You too. I mean, nice meeting you, as well."

As soon as Caitlin ducked into the comfort of a cubicle, she heard Linda accuse, "Barry, you asshole, you've been avoiding me," to which Barry responded, "Look, Linda, I don't want to fight with you…" Their conversation resumed in lower tones, much to Caitlin's relief. She felt uneasy on eavesdropping on anyone's private business, especially if it involved romance and volatile emotions. Those were the messiest private businesses.

She removed the jacket and pulled her own shirt on. She folded Barry's jacket carefully so that the name ALLEN was hidden from view and tried to dispel the sudden irrationally sentimental attachment she had developed for it.

Before she could slip out, however, Linda started raising her voice, which seemed to agitate Barry because he started raising his voice as well, and Caitlin wisely decided that the best course of action was to sit on the lid of the toilet and wait for the storm to pass. This meant, however, that she had become a reluctant, unintentional audience of their drama, and even if she tried distracting herself by reading on protein conformations in her copy of _Cell and Molecular Biology: Concepts and Experiments_ on her phone, she couldn't completely drown out their conversation.

"— _if you're not dating her—"_

"— _what's it to you if I'm dating her—"_

Caitlin coughed.

"— _is that why she has your jacket—"_

"— _I can lend my jacket to whomever I want—"_

"— _wait, so you_ are _dating her? Why've you been keeping her from everyone?"_

After a short pause, Barry replied, sounding strangely weary, _"No, I'm not, okay? She's my lab partner. I just spilled stuff on her shirt and she needed something to change into."_

" _Are you sure that's it? Because there's something in how you look at her—"_

Caitlin choked. She was convinced that there was some blockage in her trachea.

And then Barry, icily: _"Cut the crap, Linda. Why did you want to talk?"_

Linda said something inaudible, and then, raising her voice, _"—god, Barry, would it kill you to return_ one _call—"_

"— _I messaged you, didn't I—"_

"— _yeah, an hour before the fucking interview!"_

"— _and I told you months ago that I didn't want to take interviews anymore—"_

"— _but that one was different, that interview was going to launch your professional career—"_

"— _no, Linda, you're doing this for_ your _career, not mine!"_

" _How can you say that? My career is in journalism, not in building yours! You idiot, of course I'm doing this for you!"_

" _Okay, okay, I'm sorry, Linda, but don't you see, I don't want running to be my_ career _—"_

"— _but you're born for it, Barry, all the sportswriters say so, and you've wanted it since you were a kid—"_

"— _but not since what happened to my mother!"_

There was a deafening silence. The ribbon model of ribonuclease that Caitlin had pretended to be perusing lay forgotten on her lap, and suddenly she was hyperaware of the feel of Barry's cotton jacket against her palms. _What happened to his mother?_

Linda was speaking now, rapidly, soothing and contrite, but Barry seemed to be resisting her attempts at an apology. At a name that slipped from his lips, however—Iris, if Caitlin heard correctly—Linda launched into another accusation, and Barry was retaliating again, was saying, _"Not this again, can we take this argument somewhere else, please,"_ and before she knew it, they were walking away, their voices were fading, and all was quiet outside.

Caitlin emerged from the cubicle feeling very confused. Barry Allen was proving to be a very difficult person to read—he occupied the label of a popular jock, but he also had an unassuming, avid interest in science; he was playful and confident in his merciless teasing of her, but he seemed to lose his confidence and glibness when it came to high-conflict situations. And then there was the angry and anguished Barry when he mentioned his mother…

She knew that she shouldn't be surprised at the contradictory portraits he presented—people weren't always defined by a single set of traits, after all—but the polar shifts in his manner still unsettled her. And, to her horror, she realised that this made him even more appealing, and that she had never been as intrigued by any other person as much as she was by him, and she was possessed by a pressing desire to talk to him, to get to know him—

Frightened at this realisation, she shoved Barry's jacket into her backpack—she wasn't going to find him and indulge such silly impulses, and she supposed she could return it on their next lab session—and fled to the dorms.

* * *

 **(12:52)** _hey frosty_

 **(12:52)** _re lab what happened_

 **(12:52)** _wasnt able to make it_

 **(12:53)** No worries

 **(12:53)** You were not missed

 **(12:54)** _tina personally emailed me for an interview_

 **(12:54)** _but it was just a formality_

 **(12:55)** _shes already letting me intern with them_

 **(12:57)** You do know that Dr. Wells is our professor, right

 **(12:57)** _yeah so_

 **(12:58)** And that they're rivals

 **(12:58)** _yeah so_

 **(12:59)** _youre just jealous_

 **(13:01)** I'll have you know that Dr. Wells invited me to work on my thesis at STAR Labs

 **(13:01)** _yeah so_

 **(13:02)** _twinkle labs is a second-class research facility_

 **(13:02)** _but then again perfect for a second-rate student like you_

 **(13:02)** Jerk

 **(13:03)** If you're done flattering yourself

 **(13:03)** Maybe you'd want an answer to your question

 **(13:03)** _go on_

 **(13:04)** We're not partners anymore

 **(13:04)** Dr. Wells paired me off with someone else

 **(13:04)** _what_

 **(13:04)** _the fuck_

 **(13:04)** _whos gonna be my partner_

 **(13:05)** _dont tell me its bivolo_

 **(13:05)** _my IQ will fucking plummet to 110_

 **(13:05)** IQ scores aren't infectious

 **(13:05)** Get over yourself

 **(13:05)** _or woodward_

 **(13:06)** _thinks he has a future in mb just because his parents donated the fucking science complex_

 **(13:06)** _fuck_

 **(13:06)** _if its woodward im done w that class_

 **(13:06)** He would reciprocate your feelings

 **(13:07)** Fortunately for everyone

 **(13:07)** You're working alone

 **(13:07)** _what_

 **(13:08)** _oh_

 **(13:08)** _great_

 **(13:08)** _no idiots then_

 **(13:09)** Except yourself

 **(13:09)** _ha ha_

 **(13:10)** _hilarious, frosty_

 **(13:10)** _you have a real future in stand-up_

 **(13:10)** _you know_

 **(13:11)** _bars might pay more than twinkle labs_

 **(13:11)** _and more drunk people means_

 **(13:12)** _an infinitesimal increase in the prb_

 **(13:12)** _*probability_

 **(13:12)** _of you getting laid_

 **(13:14)** Hartley

 **(13:14)** This is why you don't have friends

 **(13:14)** _and i should care because_

* * *

Caitlin had never been more thankful for Hartley than she was when she walked back to the dorm, because his texts had provided some respite from thinking about her feelings. Her gratitude only lasted a few seconds, though—he only had to continue speaking for her to remember why she disliked him so much.

Felicity was nowhere to be found when she arrived. A cursory look at a printed copy of their schedules informed Caitlin that her roommate was in class, and would not be out for another twenty minutes. She figured she could wait that long before having lunch—today was one of the rare days that Felicity wouldn't have lunch with Oliver, since he was out of town—so she settled in front of her laptop and decided to consult her mother about her rash.

Technically, however, her mother couldn't diagnose the rash; she could only rule out roundworms as a probable cause for it. Her mother was in fact a rather prominent nematologist, owing partly to her uncanny obsession with said roundworms from a young age—more precisely, from the time a doctor had surgically removed a frightening number of it from her intestines when she was an adolescent—and often traveled to different countries to either discover new species or to eliminate the ones that were detrimental to the staple crops of a community.

Caitlin conceded that her mother was quite brilliant, but she still had an unshakeable, irrational belief that the preserved roundworms her mother kept around the house had somehow contributed to her extreme sensitivity to allergens.

She went online. As far as she could remember, her mother was home at the moment, because she was supposed to finish writing a paper for _Nematology_ due next week. Her mother's icon indicated that she was offline, but Caitlin knew that she was a shameless procrastinator and thus was most probably online and browsing for baby videos on YouTube, so Caitlin went ahead and sent her a message.

* * *

 **caitlin_snow93:** Greetings, birthgiver

 **worm_whisperer58:** Greetings , daughter cell ! To what do I owe the PLEASURE of this ELECTRONIC message ? :-) :-) :-)

 **caitlin_snow93:** I have a lakewater rash

 **caitlin_snow93:** I was wondering if perhaps one of your other children caused it

 _caitlin_snow93 sent a picture._

 **worm_whisperer58:** Oh , it's a NORMAL rash . MAYBE blue algae . And here I was HOPING that it would be a NEW SPECIES of nematode ! :-( :-( :-(

 **caitlin_snow93:** Sometimes I doubt that you care for me

 **caitlin_snow93:** And your indiscriminate capslocking is extremely distracting

 **worm_whisperer58:** What is "CAPSLOCKING" ? It seems VERY LONG for an acronym ! BTW , I just learned LAMAO from Felicity yesterday ! :-D :-D :-D Am I a COOL MOMMA or WHAT ?

 **caitlin_snow93:** What? Why did you speak with Felicity?

 **worm_whisperer58:** Oops! :-o :-o :-o It was supposed to be a SECRET ! LAMAO !

 **caitlin_snow93:** Mother, it's LMAO

 **caitlin_snow93:** What should be a secret?

 **worm_whisperer58:** All I will say is , I am SO GLAD that I can look forward to having BEAUTIFUL GRANDCHILDREN ! ;-) ;-) ;-)

 **caitlin_snow93:** Oh my god

 **caitlin_snow93:** WHAT DID SHE TELL YOU

 **worm_whisperer58:** HE HE HE ;-) ;-) ;-)

 **caitlin_snow93:** I am going to kill her

 **worm_whisperer58:** WHAT ! Can you do it AFTER THANKSGIVING ? I need someone to ELIMINATE the INSECT in my phone !

 **caitlin_snow93:** You mean bug?

 **caitlin_snow93:** Anyway I have to go. Felicity should be out by now

 **caitlin_snow93:** Go work on your paper

 _caitlin_snow93 is now offline._

 **worm_whisperer58:** BUT I don't feel like WORKING ! :-( :-( :-(

 **worm_whisperer58:** Caitlin ?

 **worm_whisperer58:** Does this mean you are NO LONGER DISCOVERABLE on the INTERWEBS ?

 **worm_whisperer58:** Oh dear , I shall DISPATCH an SMS re medicine for your RASH !

 **worm_whisperer58:** BTW , no worries ! It is NOT FATAL and WILL NOT affect your ABILITY to have my GRANDCHILDREN ! ;-) ;-) ;-)

* * *

Caitlin stepped out of the dorms and immediately saw Felicity in front the vendo machine at the other side of the building. She narrowed her eyes at her friend and turned to walk towards her, but she was startled by a hand on her shoulder and an all-too-familiar voice exclaiming her name.

"Oh my god," she hissed, whipping around and glaring at him. "Is it a habit of yours to creep up on people like that?"

Barry grinned at her. "No," he said. "But I could make it a habit if everyone reacted like you did."

Caitlin didn't catch his response. She had caught sight of Felicity taking a gulp of her purchased drink while Barry was speaking, and was about to turn to face them—"Oh god, she's heading this way," she said. "Quick, hide—"

"Wha—who's she?"

"Shh!" Caitlin admonished, pulling Barry into a shadowy alcove on the side of the building. If Felicity caught sight of them when she had turned to face their general direction, Caitlin was sure she would never hear the end of it. And it would only give her more fodder to feed her mother…

Caitlin contemplated her course of action. She should probably confront Felicity now and tell Barry to stay put for awhile (why was he here, though?)—she highly suspected that Felicity sent her mother the video, and if she did Caitlin wanted to make sure that she didn't send it to anyone else—but at the same time, stepping out of the alcove now would look very, very suspicious, since from Felicity's point of view it would seem like she appeared out of thin air, so she might actually investigate it. On the other hand, it seemed very unlikely that Felicity would come around the side of the building on her own initiative…

Caitlin sighed. She would have to wait it out.

"You know," Barry remarked lightly, "We seem to have established a pattern of meeting in small, dark places."

Caitlin scoffed. "Twice hardly makes a pattern."

He shrugged. "Well, if you insist on technicalities, we could schedule a third time. How does a broom closet sound?"

She glared at him. "You've been deliberately misunderstanding my words since this morning—"

"There's also the emergency stairwell in the science complex—"

"—but the emergency stairwell isn't even small—"

"—I assure you, Caitlin, neither am I—"

"—oh bleeding—if you pursue that train of thought I'll—I'll slap you—"

"—ooh, where? Not too hard, I hope—"

"—ugh, your persistent innuendoing should be a sue-able form of harassment—"

"—whoa there, if _I'm_ the one harassing you, care to tell me why you dragged me to this shady corner, holding my arm and threatening to slap me?"

Caitlin blushed and quickly withdrew her hand.

He gave her a smug, benevolent grin.

Caitlin vaguely noted that he had once again assumed his playful, confident persona. She was rather curious about where he came from and what he was doing here, but she decided to refrain from beginning that conversation. After hearing how sensitive the content of their arguments were, she knew it wasn't her place to pry; and besides, based on their first meeting, she supposed that he would disclose the story himself after some time.

She took a calming breath and cleared her throat. "My apologies."

"Apology partially accepted."

"Partially?"

"You'll receive my full forgiveness when I hear the reason for my abduction."

"I am _not_ abducting you. I'm protecting myself. And you, I suppose," she added reluctantly.

"And what exactly do I need protecting from?"

"My crazy roommate." Caitlin risked a peek at the front steps of the dorm and found Felicity chatting animatedly with Oliver's sister, Thea. "If she sees us together with her own eyes she's going to aggressively set us up, which would be undesirable for us both."

"And why would that be so undesirable?" he said, leaning back against the wall, his knees brushing against hers when he did. Caitlin realized belatedly that they were uncomfortably close—the alcove was quite small, and they only fit if they stood face to face, backs against the walls. "Do you find _me_ undesirable?"

She coughed. "Quite," she lied.

"Aw, really? So if you rate me from 0 to 5, I would be a 0?"

"I refrain from objectifying people based on a numerical scale," she replied evasively.

"Oookay," he drawled. He shifted his weight to his left leg, and again Caitlin felt it brush against her own. She was suddenly very aware of every little movement he made, from the tapping of his finger on his forearms, to the tilt of his head, to his lips forming words… "Just so you know, I would give you a 4…" he said, and added with an impish grin, "…out of 10."

"Hey," she protested despite herself. She wondered if he would rate Linda a 10, and she immediately berated herself for the thought. "I think that's rather unmerited."

"Oh, so objectification is okay now when it comes to you?"

"I was protesting at your use of the numerical scale, not the score."

"I can reconsider your score," he said good-naturedly, entirely unconvinced of her protest. "I'd say you're a 4 out of 5, but easily a 5 when you smile."

Caitlin's cheeks flamed, and he added with a grin, tilting her chin up with a finger, "But then, definitely a 6 when you blush."

Caitlin could not look him in the eye. The bottom of her chin, the part he'd touched, still felt like it was burning even after he had pulled his hand away, and he was so terribly close, and she couldn't stop glancing at his hands—

"Hey, Caitlin, are you okay?"

"Yes," she clipped, shutting her eyes and pressing her back firmly against the wall. She was scrambling for elements—hydrogen, helium—helium— _helium—_

Barry seemed to sense her discomfort, because he also flattened himself against the wall, and wisely pursued a new topic. "So, turtles copulating? Really?"

Okay, turtles copulating. She could function with turtles copulating. "It was a video my friend showed me," she said. "Just to clarify—no, I do _not_ randomly Google turtles copulating."

He laughed. "Thanks, though. And I'm really sorry about that. Linda and I didn't really break up on good terms." But instead of expounding, he simply said, "Oh, by the way, is my jacket still with you?"

Caitlin started. "Oh, um, it's in my bag. I'll have it laundered first—"

"There's really no need," he said dismissively. "I'm not afraid of your cooties."

"I wasn't aware I was speaking to a preschooler."

"Well, technically, your rash has cooties, so by transitive property, _you_ have cooties."

"It's caused by blue algae, not cooties."

"Oooh, I have a joke on algae—"

" _No_ ," Caitlin said firmly. She was not going to give him an opportunity to endear himself to her. "Do you need your jacket soon?"

"You're no fun," he sulked. "But yes, I'll be needing it in two days. We have a meet—oooh, come watch the meet!" he exclaimed. "You could give the jacket to me then—"

"Wouldn't it be easier to meet on campus before your meet?"

"Oh, fine," he said. "You should watch, though. Support the team and all. And, you know, me, if you feel like it."

It suddenly occurred to Caitlin that she didn't know how much time had passed. She peeked from the corner again and found that Felicity and Thea were gone. "The coast is clear," she announced, quickly stepping out of the alcove.

"Am I finally free to go?" he said, easily pushing his body off the wall of the alcove with his hands. He turned to face her in the sunshine, and Caitlin vaguely wondered what sort of allele combinations produced the color of his eyes, because they really were remarkable.

"Well, am I fully forgiven?" she returned.

"Touché," he said. "Hey, come to the meet?"

"No," she said, to which he grinned and responded, "Great! I'll see you then!"

Caitlin frowned as she watched him walk away. She'd gotten the impression from his argument with Linda that he didn't want to pursue running anymore, but he really did seem enthusiastic about it… And her curiosity was more than a little piqued by how Felicity and Google talked about him. She wondered if he really was as good as everyone claimed he was, if he really did enjoy running, if there would be television coverage, what role Linda played as manager of the team…

The prospect of validating or disconfirming popular opinion—and figuring Barry Allen out in the process—had admittedly intrigued Caitlin enough to consider going, after all.

* * *

 **Notes** : Hello! Tbh, this chapter was really hard to write! It was mostly because of the Linda scene—I decided to put that in in the previous chapter because I planned to delve into Barry's and Caitlin's pasts later on in the story (which would mean a more serious/dramatic turn and a lengthier fic). But after thinking long and hard about it, I decided that I won't do that anymore, since I'd already framed this as a lighthearted romance. I felt it would be false fic advertising if I suddenly made it all dramatic, so I'm keeping this fluffy and only around 7-10 chapters. But then I already had the Linda scene written out, plus the one with Caitlin's mom, so I decided keep it anyway.

So… Yeah, I'm very sorry if you expected pure Snowbarry interactions like the two previous chapters, but more to come in the next ones. At least clearer to me where this is going. Also, I'd like to know what did you feel about the introduction of other characters (Hartley, Linda), and the more serious Caitlin with her feelings? Yay or nay? Tell me what you think, I would really appreciate feedback!

 **P. S.** This chapter was partly inspired by the text form in provocative envy's Harry Potter fic "Punch Drunk". I never knew I shipped Harry with Pansy until I read that. Check it out if you're an HP fan as well!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Hi I AM SO SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT! I had a ton of requirements, so I didn't have the headspace to plan this fic. Anyhoo, I really appreciate the reviews—I loved reading each and every one! Thank you to Duchess Emma for her comment on Barry because it made me think on where I'm going with his character, and Raquel for asking how Barry was able to find Caitlin (I almost forgot to pick up on that detail… lol). Also thanks for the very sweet reviews from two Guests (the ones who said they reread this fic while waiting for an update), Lina, and anskyfighter—you guys motivated me to get writing! Yeah, so that's all for now. Hope you enjoy this chapter. I think it's the longest to date.

* * *

After the alcove incident with Barry, Caitlin returned to their dorm room. She tried to dispel memories of their interaction by outlining the lecture she was to give Felicity about not getting her mother worked up with fanciful speculations on her _non-existent_ love life. She supposed that withholding the most recent information on her interactions with Barry would be wise, at least until Felicity's matchmaking itch faded.

But then, that was as unlikely as sprouting another head, and it really was too much to hope that Felicity would never uncover the latest developments. In fact Caitlin wasn't ten minutes back in their room when Felicity discovered the jacket.

It happened like this. When Caitlin returned, Felicity was on her laptop, watching a YouTube tutorial on how to sew. Caitlin had nearly forgotten that she had tasked Felicity to mend her torn shirt for an equivalent of three points, because Felicity, with all her tech genius, was no domestic goddess—she'd nearly failed Home Economics in high school because she couldn't manage a running stitch, and had since developed a special aversion for it that, in Caitlin's opinion, was on par with her own aversion to physical touch.

Caitlin couldn't help feeling a little smug. "So how's your sewing lesson going?"

"I hate you," Felicity said glumly. "Seriously, the only thing motivating me right now is that the sooner I get this done, the sooner I can dare you to do something with Barry Allen…"

"Mmm. Speaking of Barry Allen," Caitlin said, feigning nonchalance, "did you, by any chance, send that video of us to my mother?"

Felicity's back stiffened. That was a dead giveaway.

"Oh my god, you traitor! You _know_ what a nightmare she is when it comes to dating—"

"In my defense, she bribed me with her special pudding on Thanksgiving!"

"Felicity, she _always_ serves her special pudding on Thanksgiving, with or without the intel."

"Well, okay, so maybe I didn't need to be bribed," Felicity conceded, "but I just needed to share it with someone! Cait, this is the _first time_ you've shown remote interest in anyone, and your mom was getting worried that her grandchildren would get their father from a sperm bank…"

"A _sperm bank_?"

"Yeah, she mentioned you might want a scientist's sperm, like the one who sequenced the human genome—"

"I doubt Venter would donate his sperm to such a dubious enterprise."

"—whatever, but your mom personally preferred actor sperm like Pierce Brosnan's, except Pierce Brosnan might be too old for you so I suggested Benedict Cumberbatch, but then we haven't confirmed if their sperm is available in the market because she didn't want to make an account on the website yet. Hey, the word 'sperm' sounds weird, doesn't it? Sperm. Sperm. Sperm. For the essence of masculinity it doesn't sound very masculine…"

Caitlin massaged her temples. "This is ridiculous. I mean, how would you feel if I had told _your_ mother how you and Oliver _really_ met?"

Felicity squirmed. "Well—"

"'Hello, Donna, Felicity and Oliver didn't really meet in class, the first time they actually talked was when she part-timed as an assistant IT for his gym and he came to her to have his laptop fixed—'"

"—oh my god, no need to relive the humiliation—"

"'—and she asked him if he really did have eight-pack abs because all the other employees were talking about it—'"

"—hey, that was a dare from you and besides HUMILIATION IS RELIVED AND POINT IS TAKEN—"

"'—and he was all _Would you like to see it for yourself_ and she was all _Yes please may I have a picture I assure you this is for purely scientific purposes_ —'"

Felicity hurled a pillow at her, which Caitlin only narrowly avoided.

"Hey, _I_ _'_ _m_ the injured party here."

Felicity sulked. "Fine, fine, I won't do it again."

"Swear it on Oliver's eight-pack."

"I swear that as long as Oliver has his eight-pack I will not breathe another word to your mother," she intoned. "Give me a break. I'm already learning how to make a running stitch here. And from a dude with prettier hands than mine, no less. Not to be sexist or anything. Are we having lunch?"

Satisfied with Felicity's concession, Caitlin generously decided to prepare their food. She moved to their stash of instant noodles. "Seafood or chili beef?"

"Seafood, please," Felicity said. "By the way, where's your shirt? I gotta practice my new skills."

"In my cabinet. White plastic bag."

There was a sound of rummaging while Caitlin gauged the amount of water she needed to boil. She startled when Felicity's muted complaints turned into a shriek, and her friend stumbled into the pantry, holding a white plastic bag. "HOLY MOTHER CAITLIN SNOW, THIS ISN'T YOUR SHIRT!" she accused, pulling the offending article of clothing out. Caitlin blanched when she saw the red-and-gold material instead of the cheap black cotton of her shirt. "EXPLAIN. NOW."

And thus began the Spanish Inquisition.

* * *

After they had lunch Felicity finally let her go, if only because she had to purchase the ointment for her allergy before her night class. But Felicity made it clear that she thought Barry Allen was flirting with her. Caitlin told her, mostly for the sake of argument, that that was a ridiculous assessment and that he seemed more like the type whose friendliness was frequently misconstrued for flirtatious advances, but then she didn't want to dwell on it because she had the uneasy feeling that she might prefer Felicity's hypothesis.

There was, however, a piece of information that she did dwell on: Felicity knew something about his mother. "I'd nearly forgotten about that," her friend mused. "She passed away last year, I think, before he became crazy famous. People were posting their condolences on his wall or tweeting their support for the Allens. I don't remember the details, though…"

Now, after her class and alone in their room, Caitlin was having a strange dilemma. One of her top pet peeves, second only to a messy desktop, was not knowing something when it was in her power to know it, and she knew that she could easily look through his Facebook wall to find out what happened to his mother. But then she didn't know if that was ethical, because even if the information was readily available he _did_ seem reluctant to disclose it…

She stared at her Facebook home page. To stalk or not to stalk? To stalk or not to stalk…

To compensate for the silliness of such a question Caitlin attended to school-related work first, joining the groups she needed to join and downloading the syllabi that she needed for the next day. But after that she was back to hovering uncertainly over the search bar.

That is, until she was distracted by a new friend request… From none other than Barry Allen.

For reasons that she did not want to analyse at the moment, she felt suddenly nervous. What was the norm for accepting friend requests again? Is she required to wait ten minutes so she wouldn't seem too eager or too readily available? Or was that replying to messages? Bleeding Facebook etiquette. She was only marginally better at it than her mother, who still couldn't understand the difference between a PM and a wall post and was thus blocked indefinitely as a precautionary measure. She didn't want her wall to be flooded with embarrassing baby pictures every Thursday, thank you very much.

Caitlin had wasted approximately three minutes waffling in indecision, and eventually she figured three was as good as ten, so she accepted his friend request. Almost immediately after she did he sent her a message.

 **Barry Allen:** hi :)

Caitlin panicked. _Oh my god, what now? What does that smiley even mean? Is it supposed to be flirty or is it standard for him to greet people this way? Why does he even want to talk to me? I mean, we_ _'_ _ve spent a whole class together, what else is there to talk about? Does he always communicate with his lab partners right after an experiment_ _…_ _?_

Caitlin's head hurt. Never had an innocuous 'hi' and a smiley seemed more difficult to decipher than Schrödinger's equation.

 **Barry Allen:** you there?

She took a deep breath. No need to panic. He was just a boy. In the larger scheme of things their only difference was that he had a Y chromosome. No big deal.

 **Caitlin Snow:** Yes

 **Caitlin Snow:** What do you need

 **Barry Allen:** wow

 **Barry Allen:** can i not chat with you for the heck of it

 **Caitlin Snow:** In which case you are chatting with me because you are in need of my company

 **Barry Allen:** well if you put it that way

 **Barry Allen:** i can agree that i do need something ;)

 **Caitlin Snow:** I don't believe you

 **Caitlin Snow:** Your use of ;) is suspicious

 **Barry Allen:** what whyyy

 **Barry Allen:** how is it suspicious…

 **Caitlin Snow:** A ;) conveys that something is meant to be taken as a joke

 **Barry Allen:** just bec its a joke doesnt mean its insincere :p

 **Caitlin Snow:** That's another emoticon that conveys that something is meant to be taken as a joke

 **Barry Allen:** well, i say that it conveys that im teasing you

 **Barry Allen:** :p

 **Barry Allen:** or come to think of it

 **Barry Allen:** it could also be a flirty emoticon :-?

 **Caitlin Snow:** I wouldn't know

 **Barry Allen:** you could attach :p or ;) to anything and it would sound vaguely flirty

 **Barry Allen:** :p is teasing stealth flirty

 **Barry Allen:** like

 **Barry Allen:** would you like some jam on your bread? :)

 **Barry Allen:** is different from

 **Barry Allen:** would you like some jam on your bread? :p

 **Barry Allen:** which is still different from

 **Barry Allen:** would you like some jam on your bread? ;)

 **Caitlin Snow:** Under what circumstances would you have to ask someone through chat whether they want jam on their bread

 **Barry Allen:** well

 **Barry Allen:** im having jam on my bread now

 **Barry Allen:** want some? ;)

 **Caitlin Snow:** …

 **Caitlin Snow:** No

 **Barry Allen:** its v orgasmic strawberry jam ;)

 **Caitlin Snow:** That's very troublesome jam if you have an orgasm every time you eat it

 **Barry Allen:** caitlin

 **Barry Allen:** its a hyperbole -_-

 **Caitlin Snow:** I'm aware of that

 **Caitlin Snow:** I just dislike the term orgasmic

 **Caitlin Snow:** As an adjective

 **Caitlin Snow:** And in general I suppose

 **Barry Allen:** ah

 **Barry Allen:** does this have something to do with you not liking to be touched

 **Barry Allen:** and how orgasm connotes a lot of touching

 **Barry Allen:** in the right places :p

 **Caitlin Snow:** Well

 **Caitlin Snow:** Yes

 **Barry Allen:** but its quite an experience

 **Barry Allen:** i bet if youve experienced it you would like the adjective…

 **Caitlin Snow:** No

 **Caitlin Snow:** I would rather not experience it

 **Barry Allen:** ever? :o

 **Caitlin Snow:** Ever

 **Barry Allen:** not even if i walk you through the basics? ;)

 **Barry Allen:** hahahahaha kidding kidding

 **Barry Allen:** i can already imagine your reaction :p

 **Caitlin Snow:** And what would that be

 **Barry Allen:** you would be blushing?

 **Caitlin Snow:** I am not

(She was.)

 **Caitlin Snow:** I was just thinking of something that wouldn't be flirty regardless of the emoticon

(She wasn't.)

 **Barry Allen:** sure :p

 **Caitlin Snow:** Where I'm assuming flirty means hinting at sexual attraction

 **Barry Allen:** go on

 **Caitlin Snow:** Well

 **Caitlin Snow:** "Nice weather today, isn't it? ;)"

 **Caitlin Snow:** Could be an inside joke

 **Caitlin Snow:** But it can't be flirtatious

 **Barry Allen:** hm

 **Barry Allen:** so you dont think weather can be flirty

 **Caitlin Snow:** It's not

 **Barry Allen:** challenge accepted :p

 **Barry Allen:** wait let me think

 **Barry Allen:** okay got it

 **Barry Allen:** ask me how the weather is

 **Barry Allen:** with the emoticon

 **Caitlin Snow:** Why

 **Barry Allen:** please :p

 **Caitlin Snow:** …

 **Caitlin Snow:** Nice weather today, isn't it? ;)

 **Barry Allen:** its a bit cloudy…

 **Barry Allen:** but i bet my sun can part your clouds ;)

 **Barry Allen:** ;)

 **Barry Allen:** ;)

 **Barry Allen:** ;)

 **Barry Allen:** ;) ;) ;)

 **Barry Allen:** ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;)

 **Caitlin Snow:** …

 **Caitlin Snow:** You just proved my point

 **Caitlin Snow:** Not even your additional ;)'s make it flirty

 **Barry Allen:** aw

 **Barry Allen:** not even a lol

 **Barry Allen:** or a :))?

 **Barry Allen:** :(

 **Caitlin Snow:** But then

 **Caitlin Snow:** Maybe it isn't the emoticon

 **Caitlin Snow:** So much as the attachment of possessive pronouns to the nouns

 **Caitlin Snow:** E.g. Would you like sauce on those noodles

 **Caitlin Snow:** Is quite different from

 **Caitlin Snow:** Would you like my sauce on your noodles

 **Barry Allen:** ooh, yes please ;)

 **Caitlin Snow:** That was for purely illustrative purposes

 **Barry Allen:** sure it was ;)

 **Caitlin Snow:** Stop it

 **Barry Allen:** if you say so ;)

 **Barry Allen:** tho

 **Barry Allen:** this is such a bizarre convo

 **Barry Allen:** its like

 **Barry Allen:** meta-flirting :-?

 **Barry Allen:** cept theres no real flirting going on

 **Barry Allen:** i mean youre not flirting w me are you

 **Caitlin Snow:** No

 **Barry Allen:** ok

 **Barry Allen:** just to be clear

 **Barry Allen:** im not either

 **Barry Allen:** ;)

 **Barry Allen:** kidding

 **Barry Allen:** i mean kidding w the ;) part :))

At this point Caitlin felt so confused that she wanted to strangle him. So he himself had declared that he wasn't flirting with her (although in very ambiguous terms), which meant that he had no special romantic attraction to her, which meant that her assessment of his personality had been right—he used friendliness and flirtatiousness interchangeably. But why did she feel so disappointed for being right?

 **Caitlin Snow:** Anyway there was a reason you began this conversation

 **Barry Allen:** oh

 **Barry Allen:** yeah

 **Barry Allen:** wow i nearly forgot

 **Barry Allen:** i was wondering when youre free

 **Barry Allen:** on wed? so i can meet you for my jacket

 **Barry Allen:** im free 530-830 and 130-330 :)

 **Caitlin Snow:** 5:30 am?

 **Barry Allen:** yeah i just jog around the field to warm up

 **Caitlin Snow:** Well I can meet you before my 7:30 class

 **Barry Allen:** cool

 **Barry Allen:** come watch to support the team okay :p

 **Barry Allen:** the meet is at 4 :)

 **Caitlin Snow:** Break a leg

 **Barry Allen:** i cant tell if you meant that literally or not…

 **Caitlin Snow:** I have to go

 **Caitlin Snow:** Bye

Caitlin signed off and closed her laptop. She didn't really have to go, but her chest was heavy with an invisible weight, similar to the times she was expecting an A but got a B+ instead… And she started at that comparison because she remembered that she had to do a little reading for her thesis, so she eagerly threw herself into schoolwork for the rest of the night.

She resolved to give Barry Allen as little space in her head as possible.

* * *

By Wednesday, Caitlin was feeling quite pleased with herself. The thought of Barry Allen no longer elicited the same feelings it did the day before. In fact, she had been able to analyse her reactions in a very objective manner the other day, and she'd come to the conclusion that her sense of unease around him—which manifested in heat rushing to her face, a faster pulse, and shallower breathing, to name a few—was not due to attraction, but rather to _anger_ or _frustration_. That would also parsimoniously explain why she had the urge to hit him or strangle him. Despite having zero personal experience with attraction, Caitlin was certain that when one person was attracted to another, he or she simply did not have urges to cause bodily harm to the object of attraction.

Further, any intimation she had about wanting to get to know him better could be attributed to mere curiosity and the fact that she did not typically interact with his strain of male. It was her unfamiliarity with him in general—not attraction—that caused both her confusion and her intrigue with him. Thus, she could say with confidence that she _was not_ attracted to Barry Allen.

Caitlin explained her moment of clarity to Felicity, but Felicity promptly accused her of deluding herself, because she obviously liked Barry Allen and he probably liked her too because if he didn't, why would he tease her so mercilessly? She returned that she was not deluding herself because she had come to that conclusion through a very rigorous rational analysis of her feelings, and also Barry Allen had made it very clear that he wasn't flirting with her. Felicity said that she was just using "rationality" to justify her denial, and that it was very clear that Barry Allen was also in denial. Caitlin simply denied _that_ and the case was closed. The point was, she had come to a conclusion of her feelings for Barry Allen—a conclusion that was clear, logical, and uncomplicated—and she was satisfied with it. He was nothing more than a new acquaintance and a lab partner. As for how he regarded her, he _had_ been very explicit about it, so further speculation was useless.

She was thus in a very composed frame of mind when she made her way to the track field.

It was a cold, drizzly morning. From afar the grass in the middle of the field seemed scandalously green against the gray of the sky and the dull red of the track, and Caitlin had to blink a few times to get accustomed to how bright it stood out in the landscape. As she neared it, she heard two voices—one clearly Barry's, and the other clearly belonging to a female's, although it didn't seem to be Linda's.

"Ten point twenty-one," said the female voice.

Barry groaned. "I'm never going to win with that time."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," said his companion. "Your first try was a ten point fifteen. That's your record, right?"

"Ten point twelve, actually. But I've only hit it once. It just happened to be during the nationals… Oh, hey, Caitlin!"

Barry waved at her. His companion, a pretty female with dark skin and hair, turned to look at her as well, and smiled as she neared them. "Hi," Caitlin said. She kept her tone neutral, like how she would address any male acquaintance of hers. "Here's your jacket."

"Thanks," Barry said. He seemed a little out of breath and had circles under his eyes, but he was grinning at her. Maybe he was glad to have his jacket back. "How's your rash?"

"It's fading."

"But you're still wearing a sweater to hide it. I'm really sorry."

"It doesn't inconvenience me. This is my usual outfit."

"Really?" Barry changed out of his sweatshirt—he was wearing a shirt underneath, mercifully—and into the varsity jacket. "I think I preferred that getup you had when we first met."

He was giving her that same cheeky grin, but there was something off about it—maybe it was just the general bleakness of the morning, but he seemed a shade paler. Caitlin frowned. It was normal to worry about male acquaintances, right? When Hartley was late yesterday she did give him some thought… (She vaguely wondered how sad it was that Hartley had become her standard for male acquaintance.)

She quirked her lips into what she hoped was a teasing half-smile. "Maybe you'd also prefer to be called Barney?"

"Hey," he said, but it was only a half-hearted protest. At this point Iris subtly cleared her throat.

"Oh right," Barry said sheepishly. "Sorry. Iris, Caitlin, my lab partner. Caitlin, Iris, my coach."

Iris—a name from his fight with Linda, Caitlin realised, the very best friend Linda was jealous over—rolled her eyes. "Trust me, I'd rather go back to sleep than be here." She smiled again at Caitlin and held out her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." What is it with Barry's friends and handshakes? She never recalled touching any of her coursemates' hands. But then she didn't mind as much, because, for some inexplicable reason, she instinctively liked Iris. Iris gave off the impression of being someone who could start a conversation with a complete stranger and, in ten minutes, would be conversing with him or her like old friends. Caitlin didn't think she was that stranger, but at least she felt there would be no pressure on her to make small talk.

"So… I'll leave you two to get acquainted? I'll just grab a drink," Barry said.

"Yeah, sure," Iris said, handing him his jug and towel. In that moment Caitlin could—objectively, not personally, of course—understand Linda's jealousy: there was something about their familiarity with each other that resembled an old married couple's, although it was also clear that there was romantic undercurrent between them.

"I heard about what happened from Barry," Iris said to her. "I'm sorry on his behalf, he's really annoying sometimes."

"Try all the time."

"I can hear you," Barry called out.

"Yeah, that's the point," Iris hollered back. And then she leaned closer to Caitlin and said in a conspiratorial tone, "You know, I'm surprised he lent you his jacket."

Caitlin gave her a puzzled look. "Hm?"

"You know how some athletes can get really superstitious?"

"I don't have athlete friends…"

"Well, I learned about it first from Barry," she laughed. "But anyway, they perform these rituals before or during a game that gets them in the zone. If they don't do it they get this nagging feeling that they're going to lose or something."

"Interesting," Caitlin said.

"Barry's one of those athletes. Every night before a meet he always sleeps with his jacket as his pillow, and he has it on the entire day, right until the moment he has to get on the field. He left his jacket once at another college after a meet and he went _ballistic_."

Caitlin did not know what to do with this information, but Iris was obviously expecting a reaction, so she said uncertainly, "I'm sorry." Now Iris looked puzzled, so she hastily added, "I insisted on having it washed before giving it back to him. I had no idea it was his peace of mind."

"Oh, Barry might have been too embarrassed to tell you," Iris said with an enigmatic smile.

Caitlin felt confused. What exactly then was Iris trying to achieve by telling her? Was it a warning for her to refrain borrowing his jacket right before a game? Her tone lacked venom for a warning, but if it _was_ a warning, she definitely did not plan on borrowing it again—not like she had borrowed it on purpose in the first place. And wasn't it possible that he had been so apologetic about messing up their first experiment that he felt like making up for it by forgoing a good night's sleep? Besides, didn't he say that he wasn't as passionate about track as he was? So maybe he wasn't as superstitious anymore, either…

Barry was jogging back towards them.

"Will you be watching the meet later?" Iris asked her, now in a normally modulated voice.

Caitlin gave a vague response and impulsively announced that she needed to go to class, bidding Iris goodbye and Barry good luck. On her walk to the science complex she refused to dwell on what Iris said. It was far too early in the morning for an attempt to decipher people.

* * *

"Cait! Caitlin! CATALINA! Wait up!"

Caitlin paused on her way out of the classroom and glanced back to see Cisco squeezed through the crowd to get to her. He grinned and said, by standard way of greeting, "Hola, mi amiga Catalina." It was a habit he'd started since high school, and Caitlin had long given up in getting him to stop calling her that.

"Hello, mi amigo Francisco," she said, because she knew that being called his full name annoyed him. "You have class here?"

"Yup! Materials engineering," he said. "I'm crazy excited for it. I'm thinking of making that cold gun for my final project. I showed you my sketch, right?"

She raised a brow. "You showed me a lot of sketches, but I think I remember it. Will your professor even allow you make a _weapon_?"

"Professor Stein? Dude, he was even more excited about it than _me_. He said I could probably finish a prototype by the end of the sem, although I might not be able to fire it yet. I can't wait to get started! I mean, finding the materials is gonna be a pain, but Stein said that he knows some people—wait, before I get sidetracked, I was gonna ask you something… Waaait… Oh, yeah, I saw Barry Allen here the other day, and he was looking for you?"

Caitlin knitted her brows together. "You know him?"

"Yeah, sat beside him in physics back in first year. Crazy guy. Probably the only I.S. major ever to take physics for his elective."

"I.S. as in interdisciplinary studies? But he's in forensic science now. We're classmates for cell and molecular biology."

It was Cisco's turn to be confused. "I guess he shifted? Huh. Anyway, I saw you walking to the dorms. I was shouting at you but you didn't mind me, and then Barry came by and asked if I saw you. Why did you have his jacket, anyway? Are you a fan or something?"

She glared at him. "Of course not," she said, and quickly explained the accident. Cisco, bless his heart, was oblivious to all the "romantic" nuances that Felicity had seen, and by the end of her story all he said was, "So are you watching the meet?"

"Are you?"

"Yeah, but not for him. I'm going for my beloved tutee."

"Lisa Snart?" Caitlin had to endure Cisco's endless gushing about her the entire summer, so much so that she probably knew more about Lisa now than Lisa's own parents. "She's on the team?"

"Yeah, she is. I already thought of a nickname for her— _the Golden Glider_ ," he said, starry-eyed. "How does that sound? I'm trying to make sports nicknames a thing, but they won't let me announce during events. Jax says I might just go on about Lisa, but hey, I can be totally unbiased. Although she is pretty phenomenal on the field. I mean, this one time I saw them practice, she was neck-to-neck with Barry!"

"You're a very supportive tutor," Caitlin said dryly.

"Hey, tutoring is the only way outside of like, getting someone completely wasted that a nerd can have a shot at the Lisas of the world. Have I told you how she reacted to that video of turtles copulating? I showed you that, right…?"

Caitlin cringed. "Well, about that—"

"So we met up the other day to coordinate our scheds, and she was wearing these black skinny jeans that made her look extra tall—but just to be clear I'm _one inch_ taller than she is, even without the milk cartons in my shoes—"

She sighed. Good ol' Cisco. _Here we go again_ …

* * *

After her psychology class—and numerous texts from Cisco bugging her to go, because Jax had class and Cisco didn't want to seem like a complete loser watching the meet alone—Caitlin made her way to the track field for the second time that day. It was quite sunny now so she had to push the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows. She adjusted her bra uncomfortably, feeling the sweat pooling at her sternum, and she silently cursed all outdoor activities as she did. Really, part of her tuition went to building that stupid indoor sports facility, so why couldn't they hold events there instead?

Well, she didn't really have a right to complain, since she'd only be watching this once, anyway. And she was doing it to accompany Cisco. Also she wanted to try something that her psychology professor mentioned in her introductory lecture. She said that one branch of psychology dealt with understanding memory and perception, and she cited numerous studies that proved how something as simple as labels could affect how people perceived an object and how they would later remember it. For example, labelling the _same figure_ as either "eyeglasses" or "dumbbells" affected how people later redrew the figure. Most didn't actually redraw the figure exactly as it had appeared, but rather as it had been labelled.

Caitlin was fascinated by the illustration and wondered if she could apply it to people. For example, instead of using "Barry Allen" to refer to Barry Allen—his name had rather troublesome connotations for her, like pretty green eyes, pseudo-flirtatious banter, peppermint-and-aftershave-smelling jacket, emoticons like ;), :p, and so on—she could grant him a neutral label, such as "Male Acquaintance 009" or "Specimen X." She was partial to "Specimen X", though, because the use of "specimen" was devoid of personal significance and did not connote progression in a relationship (as opposed to 'male acquaintance', which could lead to 'friend', 'boyfriend', and so on). There was only one sort of relationship embedded in "specimen", and that was scientist-object, or observer-observee.

She felt a tad guilty about how cold it sounded, so she changed X to B instead. There. Henceforth, she would use the label "Specimen B" to Barry Allen, in hopes that she'd perceive him with less personal attachment than absolutely necessary.

When she arrived at the field she spotted Cisco immediately. He shot up from his seat and gave her a huge wave with both arms, beaming, and she tried not to be embarrassed when a few heads turned to her. "You're just in time! The women's event is about to start," he said. "GO LISA! WHOO! —Did you see that? She blew me a flying kiss!"

"Are you sure that it was meant for you and not, you know, the crowd in general?"

Her admonition fell on deaf ears as Cisco had already moved to "catch" the flying kiss. Caitlin sighed. That Lisa Snart had definitely done a number on Cisco. He was a complete goner for her.

Caitlin clutched her backpack closer to her chest and leaned away from the gaggle of freshman girls beside her, who were busy taking selfies with the field and with their hotdogs. The heat was near unbearable now, and her hair was sticking to her neck in damp clumps; all around there was indiscernible chatter and barely coherent screaming. The smell of cheap processed food permeated the air, and empty, sauce-smeared containers littered the floor.

Ugh, Caitlin thought, gingerly pushing a chewed-on straw away from her foot, she hated sports events…

Suddenly there was a loud blast, the crowd erupted into screams, Cisco was going crazy beside her, and just as she looked up at the field the female runners were off. She managed to locate Lisa in red and gold, but she crossed the finish line just as she did. It was over in eleven seconds.

"DID YOU SEE THAT!" Cisco said exultantly, as if he had been the one to win the race. "TEN POINT EIGHTY-SEVEN SECONDS!"

A few minutes later, the males began warming up on the field. Caitlin spotted Bar—Specimen B—immediately, still sporting his red-and-gold jacket.

 _Specimen B begins performing stretches,_ Caitlin thought. _Specimen B pulls his leg behind him. Now he moves to touch the floor. He bends on one knee to untie and retie his laces on the right foot, and then on the left foot. Specimen B stands. He makes his way to the bleachers. Specimen B greets a group of people in the first row. The group of people yell,_ _"_ _Block Y represent!_ _"_ _From this information it may be inferred that the group of people are his forensic science blockmates. Specimen B seems to be thanking them. He lingers speaking with a blonde girl. The blonde girl is pretty. She is smiling for the whole duration of their exchange. Specimen B is smiling at her, as well. Specimen B has a nice smile. (The observer notes that a_ _"_ _nice smile_ _"_ _means a smile that is evolutionarily advantageous for attracting viable mates.) Specimen B moves away from them. He seems to be searching for something. Specimen B pauses and waves_ _—_ _at the observer?_

Caitlin paused in her monologue and stared at Specimen B. True enough, he _was_ grinning and waving at her. Or maybe it was just the crowd in general? But he seemed to be mouthing her name…

"Dude, I think Barry Allen's waving at you," Cisco said, elbowing her.

Caitlin reluctantly lifted her hand to eye-level and waved back.

That seemed to satisfy him. _Specimen B now turns to Cisco, the observer_ _'_ _s companion,_ Caitlin thought, resuming her detached internal narration. She may be enjoying this more than she would like to admit. _They exchange a flurry of gestures that the observer doesn_ _'_ _t understand. It seems to be part of the system of signs that male Homo sapiens have developed to greet each other. Specimen B now turns his gaze back to the observer. It may just be a trick of the light, but the observer has reason to believe that he possessed the audacity to wink at her. The observer decides that the best course of action is to ignore him, as such behaviour is normal to him and should not be reinforced. Specimen B now returns to the field. He repeats the same set of stretches that he performed before his quick interaction with the audience. Specimen B bounces on his feet. He takes a drink of water. He listens to a few words from his coach. He unzips his jacket and_ holy mother of god those arms and that back—

Caitlin tugged at the collar of her sweater and tried to compose herself. _Specimen B is attired in a skintight sleeveless red-and-gold jersey and a pair of skintight black shorts made from technical fabric,_ she amended. _The observer assumes that such clothing minimises friction and chafing when the human body moves at high velocity. In such clothing Specimen B proves to have well-formed trapezius, deltoids, triceps, biceps, and gluteals. (The observer does not neglect to note that other male-runner bodies are formed in a similar manner.) In colloquial terms, he may be described as_ _"_ _ripped_ _"_ _._

 _Specimen B and the seven other runners move to the starting line. The announcer quickly goes over the accomplishments of each. The observer learns that Specimen B is the back-to-back champion in three out of five leagues that he has joined, and that this qualification meet should be a breeze for him. When the announcer says,_ _"_ _Give it up for Barry Allen,_ _"_ _the audience goes berserk (including the observer_ _'_ _s companion, who has been spouting a steady stream of statistics on each runner). Specimen B assumes a self-deprecating air by rubbing his neck and shyly waving at the crowd. It really does not become him. However the observer notes that this show of self-deprecation may be part of his public appeal. The runners position themselves at the starting line. The gun goes off and they_ _'_ _re off_ _—_ _but wait what_ _'_ _s this dear mother of the lord Barry Allen isn_ _'_ _t in the lead_ _—_ _there_ _'_ _s a fucker in yellow with a funny name who_ _'_ _s in the lead_ _—_ _Cisco is screaming_ _—_ _is that me screaming I_ _'_ _m not sure_ _—_ _oh my god he_ _'_ _s picking up speed and_ _—_ _oh my god he crossed the finish line_ _—_ _oh my god HE WON_ _—_

"TEN POINT ELEVEN!" Cisco whistled. "That's a new record for him! Amazing!"

Caitlin hadn't realised that she'd been holding onto her backpack so tightly that there were clear outlines of the zipper on her palms. She stared at Barry Allen celebrating on the field, smiling for the cameras, arms raised to the sky. The crowd was cheering but well above the din, the beating of her own heart reverberated loudly in her ears.

Well, so much for detachment.

* * *

 **(16:11)** _brEAKING NEWS_

 **(16:12)** _caitlin_

 **(16:12)** _cait cait cait caitliiiiiin_

 **(16:13)** _oh yeah ur watching ur lover_

 **(16:13)** _k fine_

 **(16:13)** _imma tell u anyway_

 **(16:14)** _oliver knows barry_

 **(16:14)** _as in theyre friends_

 **(16:14)** _! ! ! ! ! !_

 **(16:14)** _like_ _not bff material but like_

 **(16:15)** _i share my probs to dat ho sometimes when we_ _'_ _re drunk af_

 **(16:15)** _material_

 **(16:16)** _not his exact words bt u get it_

 **(16:16)** _so i asked oliver to invite him to movie night_

 **(16:17)** _on sat_

 **(16:17)** _and im almost done w ur stupid shirt_

 **(16:18)** _and u knoe what dat means_

 **(16:19)** _guess what im gonna dare u to do_

 **(16:19)** _muAAHAHHAHAHAHA_

 **(16:20)** _god i love myself_

* * *

 **Notes:** Yeah, so this chapter was heavy on Caitlin/Felicity and Caitlin/Cisco friendship, but I figured that they had to make a major appearance, being Caitlin's only friends and all. Also I know nada about college track, so I had to do a bit of research… I would be glad if anyone can give me info about it. As usual, feedback is much appreciated! Pardon the mistakes, I wrote the last three-ish parts in a rush.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** You might have noticed that the summary changed, because I realised it didn't actually reflect the main conflict of the story and I finally had the time to write a new one. Guh I swear I have such a hard time with summaries…

Again, thank you for the reviews! I'm glad to hear you're enjoying this fluff. Kudos to Raquel for noticing that the person ahead of Barry with the funny name was Eobard Thawne, and much thanks to Gabriel for the track info (apparently there's no such thing as an elimination round in track, so I changed that in the previous chap. Thanks for that!). To address Boba's question, my update schedule is 7-10 days, but it's been erratic because finals and tbh I was tremendously blocked in writing this chap. I'll post upcoming update scheds on my author's page instead, or you can send me an ask on tumblr (eccacia..tumblr..com). Also thanks to the other guest reviewers whom I can't PM—Lina, MoustachedCat, requim17, Jade, Kenedy, and the ones named Guest—I really appreciate your taking time to R&R, and I'm glad you enjoying this.

To the Guest who had difficulty understanding the text messages: may I know what parts you found difficult to understand? Is it the shortcuts used, or is it hard to follow the texts and who's texting? I would appreciate feedback so I can improve on it in future chaps.

A quick disclaimer—I stopped following Arrow after the first half of the first season, so my depiction of Oliver and Felicity is mostly based on the Flash crossover episodes. And since in this AU Oliver doesn't have the whole dark past on the island thing and he's with Felicity, he might seem a bit OOC, but I hope it's not too off-base.

Well, that was a long AN. Anyway, enjoy. T for innuendo and language, as always, and Felicity's plotting…

* * *

Caitlin slipped away right after the track meet. Or, at least, right after Cisco left her to make a beeline for Lisa, and right before she could witness Barry Allen's interview with the sports writers of the school paper and of Central Times. She reasoned that she didn't have any more reason to stay, anyway.

But she spent the next few hours going about the things she had to do with a vague restlessness buzzing inside her chest. Felicity's text _was_ cause for some mild alarm, but Caitlin was certain that that wasn't _the_ cause of her anxiety. After having a microwave dinner alone, Caitlin had gone online and had spent an hour or so clicking random links and browsing articles and listicles, but she didn't even read half of the scientific news articles she clicked, whereas she scrolled through all those drivel-filled listicles that claimed to be able to tell her the "Ten Symptoms of Restlessness and Ten (Guaranteed!) Solutions to It". When she realised that aimlessly browsing internet garbage only exacerbated her anxious frenzy, she paused and finally attempted to reflect on why she was feeling this way.

It turned out to be a very simple reason. This was the same anxiety she felt when she was waiting for an event to come about, and one that she hoped would have a favourable outcome, such as waiting for the results to her SATs. She was anxious because she was waiting for a certain event—namely (and she only admitted this to herself with much reluctance) Barry Allen's acknowledgement of her presence at the meet via Facebook message—and the favourable outcome was that he would display gratitude at her having been there. He'd been so insistent for her to go, had made sure to greet her while she was there, had known how uncharacteristic it was for her to even consider being there, that she'd somehow believed… Well, _what_ had she believed? That she was entitled to his gratitude? But _why_ would she be entitled to his gratitude?

Was it because she somehow felt that she deserved special attention from him? But she didn't have _reason_ to expect special attention from him—as she had established the day before, she didn't even expect _herself_ to give special attention to him, because _she didn't like him romantically_. It seemed that her expectations were based on the mere impression that he wanted her in particular to be there. But then, it was probably usual for him to urge a lot of people to go to his meet, and he didn't thank them all personally, did he? (She certainly didn't think that he would, for example, personally send Cisco a message thanking him for going.) A mass 'thank you' to the crowd would have sufficed.

So, if 1) she didn't like him romantically and 2) there was no reason to believe that her presence in particular at the meet was special, why was she 1) anxiously expecting a message and 2) feeling disappointed that there was still no communication with him? Why was she adhering to so unsubstantiated a belief?

Madness. It was utter _madness_. It was preposterous and irrational, but how could the disappointment feel so _real?_

In an attempt to gain control of the situation, Caitlin once again chalked her feelings up to her previously made conclusion about Barry Allen: it was her mere unfamiliarity with him that caused her to feel a strong sense of disappointment at not having communicated with him. Unfamiliarity led to intrigue and curiosity, and this lack of communication frustrated the fulfilment of her curiosity. What would abate her disappointment, then, if not personal communication, was a thorough and covert investigation of Barry Allen through the resources available to her (i.e., his social media pages). Once she knew all there was to know about him, she would cease to be interested in him.

As with any other normal human being Caitlin was not impervious to the flaws of her own reasoning, and that night she had no Felicity to keep her in check. Thus believing her own logic justified, Caitlin began stalking— _investigating_ —Barry Allen's Facebook page. As it was an investigation she decided that her search must be systematic, so she began looking through his albums, which was grouped both chronologically and thematically. She browsed photos of his high school meets, his outings and road trips, his parties with his friends, and the handful of inter-class science quiz bees that he'd joined.

The second and third times she returned to his page—early the next morning and after lunch, respectively, because he hadn't messaged her and she needed to do something to distract herself from the disappointment—she paid more attention to the comments section, and was vaguely puzzled at how Barry Allen seemed fluent at both jock register _and_ nerd register. For instance, in the pictures he had with his track teammates, he said things like "bro that party fred's was THE SHIT!1!1! everyone was sooooo wasted" while in pictures with the quiz bee nerds he said things like "good thing we got through that fast and FERROUS round!". The diverse company he kept indicated that he was a social butterfly—although Caitlin felt that a more accurate term for him would be social _chameleon_ , what with the way he even blended and adjusted to the implicit habits and mannerisms of each group.

Not that Caitlin wasn't aware of that already, but while he _was_ far too charismatic to be a 'nerd', he didn't exactly seem like a 'jock', either. But looking through his albums, she realised that he could seem very jock-y if he was with the right crowd. She didn't know what to do with this insight, though, because she couldn't exactly dig deep on social media—breadth of information didn't necessarily translate to depth—and even after looking through his most recent albums she found herself still wondering who, exactly, _was_ Barry Allen. How much of him was his charming public facade? What was his private face like? Didhe even _have_ one? She could probably uncover some of that if she'd look through the posts on his mother's death, but she still felt ethically bound not to do so…

Damn it, her "investigation" only served to pique her interest in him rather than extinguish it. Why do her perfectly well-reasoned, detach-self-from-Barry-Allen plans keep backfiring on her?

* * *

On Thursday night, Caitlin and Felicity convened on top of Felicity's bed. Dread was pooling in Caitlin's stomach, because the smugness that Felicity was emanating was as thick as the heat in the room.

Felicity's smugness was _never_ a good sign.

"Guess I'm still in the lead," she preened.

Caitlin sulked. "I shouldn't have given you three points for sewing."

"Your loss," Felicity sang. She took possession of her laptop from Caitlin after she'd entered the points on the Microsoft Excel file where they consolidated all their dares, deadlines, and scores. Caitlin had awarded the points with much reluctance—she'd spent nearly an hour inspecting Felicity's stitches and was mighty convinced that she'd somehow hired someone else to do it, because they were actually… _decent_. Despite the fact that Felicity was a fast learner, Caitlin was not about to believe that she could learn in five days a skill that she'd consistently failed to grasp for an entire semester.

But she _had_ sworn on Oliver's inheritance, which seemed to be an more constant reality than his eight-pack abs, so Caitlin supposed that Felicity had indeed accomplished the impossible. _Great._

"Hm, did you notice this is the first time we've actually raised the stakes?" Felicity said, perusing the meticulously organised items. Caitlin wondered how the simple dares they had started with that summer—like deliberately misspelling their customer's names on their orders, or calling their boss "bruh"—morphed into the ultra-competitive monster missions that they sent each other on now. They really did have no lives. "We got three points each now. I feel cheated. You never did that with the Oliver dares…"

"Well, Felicity, you weren't exactly _unwilling_ —"

"Well, _Caitlin_ ," she said, flashing her a creepy, Cheshire-cat grin, "you might want to be nice to me, because your fate is now in my hands. It's payback time."

"Ugh, _fine_. God."

"This time, there'll be no crazy excursions to dark places or messages to decode. I'm keeping it simple."

Caitlin broke into cold sweat. For some reason, that sounded very ominous. "O…kay, go on."

Felicity smiled. It was a smile of pure evil.

"You," she said, "are going to touch Barry Allen's ass."

Caitlin choked. "WHAT!"

Felicity reiterated calmly, "The official Excel entry will read: For five whole seconds, you shall caress Barry Allen's magnificent glutes before my very eyes—"

"NO. BLEEDING. WAY."

"If you think about it from a scientific perspective, all you have to do is place your hand on a piece of cloth covering one group of muscles… Although it _is_ a very sexualised group of muscles…"

"FELICITY, YOU ARE INSANE. I FORFEIT."

"Did I just hear forfeit?" Felicity's smile did not waver. "Well now, what's the rule for forfeiting again? Oh yeah, french Cisco within the next hour. I wonder who came up with that rule… Oh, right, it was _you._ "

Caitlin groaned. She had imposed that rule back when she was having a field day with Felicity and Oliver, and she framed it that way precisely so that forfeiting would be impossible. There was just something about going through the most sordid phases of puberty together that rendered the mere thought of romantic involvement with each other seem downright incestuous.

Caitlin thought she was a genius for coming up with it, but now it was coming to bite her back in the ass.

Well, that was an unfortunate choice of words, because it conjured an image of her biting Barry Allen's ass, which was extremely disturbing and _definitely unhelpful at the moment_ —

Felicity cleared her throat. "Of course, as the benevolent deity of dare-giving, I'm open to negotiation. The five-second limit could be lowered to three seconds."

Caitlin stared at her. "Would the nature of body part be open to negotiation? I mean, touching someone's nose to touching someone's posterior isn't a very logical progression—"

"No."

"No as in, no, indeed it's not a logical progression, or no as in, no the body part is not open to negotiation?"

"No as in, ass is mandatory. Unless it's the lips, and you have to touch his with yours."

"…I was never this evil to you."

"Well, too bad. You had your chance."

Caitlin frantically tried to think of another way out. "Well, would the nature of the touch be open to negotiation?"

"Hm, I guess I don't really mind if you pat or stroke or squeeze"—Caitlin choked—"or whatever, as long as your hand is there for a length of time and is within my line of sight."

"How about hover?"

"Hover?"

"Yes, my hand will just hover above his… posterior."

"Um, _hello_ , what part of 'touch' don't you understand?"

"It's almost a touch," she protested. "See, when I hover my hand over your sternum you'd receive a sensation of psychic tingling because you're _anticipating_ my touch—"

"Stop that! Jesus, stop hovering above my boob!" Scandalised, Felicity swatted Caitlin's hand away, but Caitlin smirked and used her other hand. "Fine, fine, I'll accept hovering, just stop! God, you're creepy."

"Hey, says the person who wants me to practically _assault_ someone I hardly know!"

"Oh, please. If you're worried about his consent then maybe you should ask permission from him beforehand."

"Maybe I will. But if he doesn't consent the dare won't push through."

Felicity smirked. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine."

" _Fine._ "

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

Caitlin gave her laptop a reluctant look. Of course the problem with her condition was that there seemed to be no conceivable way to ask Barry Allen if he would consent to have his posterior touched—hovered over, whatever—without making a complete fool of herself in the process.

"You're not going to ask him because you know he'll be fine with it. I bet he'd even encourage you to do it."

There was that, too.

"God, I hate you _so much_."

"You'll thank me one day, Cait. You'll thank me one day."

* * *

Now, Caitlin could get irrationally competitive when it came to these mission-dares, but she was _not_ about to sacrifice her dignity and hand-ginity for a measly three points.

So she came up with a game plan. She was going to pretend like she was performing the dare to avoid forfeiture, but she was also going to consistently fail to fulfil it. The required time limit was ten seconds and the required hand-to-posterior distance was one inch, but she would hold her hand as far away from Barry Allen's posterior as possible, and she was only going to hold it up for three seconds max. In that way, Felicity couldn't accuse her of forfeiture or of not trying at all.

Only, there were three little factors that complicated her game plan of pretending to fake-touch Barry Allen's posterior. Those three little factors came in the form of Oliver Queen, Cisco Ramon, and Jefferson Jackson.

Caitlin had really conceived of going through with her plan with Oliver present, since that was inevitable. She'd assumed they would be going to a public place, anyway, so it would be easy to be discreet about hovering. Besides, Felicity would have already no doubt filled Oliver on the details, and she supposed that he'd at least have the decency to not call attention to her attempts.

But then Oliver just had to tell to Felicity that Friday morning—with much mumbling and shame—that he didn't actually enjoy going to theatres, especially the nearby ones that all the Central Uni students frequented, because they reeked of sweat ("The movies here always smell sour, like the gym in the afternoon") and were unhygienic ("I know someone who gave my friend a blowjob there," he'd insisted. "There might be cum on those seats and carpets"). Caitlin didn't mind that it reeked of sweat because she'd never even noticed it—neither did Felicity, but her friend had explained that Oliver had a very sensitive nose, what with his eucalyptus-scented apartment and lavender-water-laundered sheets—but Caitlin _perfectly_ understood his point on dubious bodily fluids on the seats and carpets.

Now she'd hoped this meant that movie night was cancelled. But instead Oliver had graciously offered his apartment, which boasted a 90-inch flat-screen TV _and_ surround-sound speaker system. The private setting gave her a distinct disadvantage when it came to hiding her attempts from Oliver, although she supposed it _was_ better than going to a public place where there were people that might recognise them. But _then_ , of course, the universe was conspiring to make sure she made an utter fool of herself, and so decided that Cisco and Jax should overhear Felicity inform her of the change of plans during lunch that Friday.

"Did you just say _90-inch flat-screen TV_ and _Dolby Atmos surround-sound speakers?"_ Cisco had said slowly, pausing with his Big Belly Burger in mid-air.

"At THE Oliver Queen's _man cave_?" Jax added, voice modulated in the same reverent hush as Cisco's.

Felicity feigned nonchalance. "Yeah, it's where we'll be having our double-date."

"It's not a double date, it's a movie night," Caitlin protested feebly.

" _Double_ date? Who's Caitlin's date?" Cisco said, confused.

" _You_ date?" Jax said to Caitlin. "I thought you were a plant or something."

"You mean asexual? Yes, I am."

"No, she's not. She's got a thing for Bar—"

"I DO NOT."

"Do you think Barry can set me up with Lisa—"

"Dude, I keep telling you she's out of your league."

Cisco was not swayed. "Do we need to have dates to be invited? I mean, I don't think Lisa'll mind if Jax and I go as dates—"

"—oh yeah, good idea, but in a completely no-homo bro-mantic way, you know—"

"—will that get us an invite to the man-cave? It's not like we're not bros with Oliver—"

"—yeah, he's totally a _Bro_ liver—"

"—an Oli _bruh_ —"

"—we're such bros, we're attached to the liver—"

"— _dude_ , that's kind of gross—"

"—okay, okay, but you get my point."

They flashed such identical idiotic grins that Felicity wavered. "Well, I'm not sure if Oliver will be okay with extra people, since he doesn't even _invite_ people to his apartment in the first place…"

Cisco clasped his hands together, and Jax followed suit by bowing his head to the table. "Please, O Felicity crusher-of-men—"

"—Felicity the destroyer-of-balls—"

"—Felicity the hulk-smasher—"

"—Felicity the _man_ nihilator—"

"Fine, fine, I'll ask Oliver," she grumbled. "God, it's a good thing I love you idiots."

"BOOYAH!"

"BOOM BABY!"

Jax added, munching on his fries, "Yeah, we love ourselves too."

"Hard not to," Cisco shrugged. "We're pretty awesome. The room will explode from our awesomeness."

"And from those Dolby Atmos surround sound speakers."

"And that sweet 90-inch flat-screen TV."

"We'll just ogle Oliver Queen's tech while you guys make out in some corner."

Cisco nodded vigorously. "Yeah, we'll be totally inconspicuous."

"We'll be totally invisible."

"Like a stealth ship."

"Like Naruto."

Felicity wrinkled her brow. "What's a Naruto?"

"WHAT! FELICITY, FOR SHAME! DISHONOR ON YOUR FAMILY!"

"He's a ninja," Caitlin supplied. "Of anime origin, I think."

"Naruto's a pretty noisy ninja, though."

"Yeah, 'cause we can't promise we won't be noisy…"

Caitlin sighed. It wasn't even Saturday yet and she could already feel a massive headache coming on.

* * *

 **(10:02)** _hey_

 **(10:02)** _you going to olivers tonight? :)_

 **(10:05)** Who's this?

 **(10:05)** Please identify yourself

 **(10:05)** _guess who :p_

 **(10:06)** … How were you able to obtain this number

 **(10:06)** _you havent guessed_

 **(10:06)** You already gave yourself away

 **(10:06)** _was it the emoticon_

 **(10:06)** _am i the only friend you have who uses emoticons /:)_

 **(10:07)** The only friend who 1) uses emoticons, 2) is invited to Oliver's, and 3) whose number is not registered under a name on my phone

 **(10:07)** _…_

 **(10:07)** _you really talk funny you know_

 **(10:07)** I talk the same in person and on text and chat

 **(10:07)** How is that supposed to be funny

 **(10:08)** _never mind_

 **(10:08)** _are you going to olivers?_

 **(10:08)** How did you get my number

 **(10:09)** _from him :-j_

 **(10:09)** _turns out that new girl he cant stop talking about_

 **(10:09)** _is your crazy dare giving, matchmaking roommate?_

 **(10:10)** Yes, unfortunately

 **(10:10)** For you, myself, and especially Oliver

 **(10:10)** _yeah?_

 **(10:10)** _whats she gonna make you do this time? :o_

 **(10:11)** I can't tell you

 **(10:11)** _so it involves me? :p_

 **(10:11)** …Well, a part of you

 **(10:11)** _is it a physical part of me? :p_

 **(10:11)** In a manner of speaking

 **(10:12)** _how physical?_

 **(10:12)** _;)_

 **(10:12)** I would really rather not tell you

 **(10:12)** _why not? dont i have a right to know_

 **(10:12)** _informed consent and all that_

 **(10:13)** _which isnt to say that i wont consent if you dont tell me_

 **(10:13)** _but being informed would be nice_

 **(10:13)** I think it would make me more uncomfortable than it would make you

 **(10:13)** In any case I don't plan on fully executing it

 **(10:14)** _so… youre not gonna do it anyway? so ill never actually know?_

 **(10:14)** _are you just gonna leave me hanging_

 **(10:14)** Congratulations on winning the meet

 **(10:14)** _youre actually leaving me hanging_

 **(10:14)** _by not answering whether or not youll leave me hanging_

 **(10:14)** It was a new record for you, wasn't it?

 **(10:14)** _im still meta-hanging here_

 **(10:14)** What is it with you and meta-ing

 **(10:15)** _just watched inception last week_

 **(10:15)** _i know, im a loser_

 **(10:15)** What was your opinion of it

 **(10:15)** _nuh uh_

 **(10:15)** _i aint falling for that_

 **(10:15)** _good diversion tactic but not good enough /:)_

 **(10:16)** _tell me what the dare isssss_

 **(10:16)** You looked very aesthetically pleasing in your track attire

 **(10:19)** _…?!_

 **(10:20)** _god almighty_

 **(10:20)** _did i just read that_

 **(10:20)** _from you_

 **(10:20)** _from YOU_

 **(10:20)** _jesus_

 **(10:20)** _i almost spilled my drink_

 **(10:20)** _christ_

 **(10:21)** You've invoked God's name more frequently in the past minute than some people have in their lives

 **(10:21)** _can we return to how you found me aesthetically pleasing_

 **(10:21)** That was a diversion tactic

 **(10:21)** Which is proving to be most effective

 **(10:22)** _i like that diversion tactic_

 **(10:22)** _can we pursue that diversion tactic_

 **(10:24)** _caitlin_

 **(10:25)** _caitlin_

 **(10:26)** _caitlin_

 **(10:29)** _oh btw_

 **(10:29)** _the next meet is on mon_

 **(10:29)** _will you come?_

 **(10:30)** _caitlin_

 **(10:30)** _caitlin_

 **(10:30)** _caitlin_

 **(10:31)** _ignoring me as a diversion tactic for your diversion tactic huh_

 **(10:31)** _very meta-sneaky /:)_

 **(10:31)** _dont think i wont bring this up later_

* * *

By the time six o'clock rolled around, Caitlin was nervously picking at the strings of her sweater while waiting for Cisco and Jax outside the boys' dorms. Felicity had gone on ahead to Oliver's to "cook dinner" (which Caitlin told Oliver to dissuade her from doing at all costs to prevent fires, so they'd all be meeting at the shopping district nearby for dinner before heading back to Oliver's), and Barry was coming from a convention that he was emceeing for. Which left her no choice but to walk to the meet-up place with Cisco and Jax.

It wasn't that she found their company taxing or anything. It was just, well, they weren't exactly… shining examples of subtlety. Cisco was _Cisco_ and he hadn't changed much from when Caitlin first knew him back in middle school—he was a kid at heart and was oblivious to undertones most of the time, but when he _did_ pick up on something, he'd get so excited on being in on the "secret" that he wouldn't be able to hide his excitement, even if he never meant to give anyone away.

Jax, on the other hand, wasn't subtle either, but he was much more intentional than Cisco. Caitlin had only met him back in her first year of college when he and Cisco became roommates, and got to talk to him at length when she subbed for Cisco in tutoring him for his core science and math subjects. Jax had been part of the football team and was hailed a football prodigy when he was first recruited, but his career was cut short when he sustained a serious knee injury early on in the season. He tried to make a comeback, but he never lasted as long as he did in his pre-injury stage. Eventually that injury cost him his friends and his scholarship. Caitlin remembered Jax confiding to her once in first year—after another lengthy apology for having a difficult time with word problems—that he'd considered committing suicide after that, and had Cisco not tutored the hell out of him until he was able to pull his grades to the minimum required for an academic scholarship, he might have actually gone through with it. (He hadn't spoken of football in so long, Caitlin mused, that she'd nearly forgotten that he was once an athlete.) His more serious moments were rarer nowadays, though—now his pre-injury self was resurfacing (and maybe Cisco's exuberance was rubbing off on him, too) and he was ready to laugh and poke fun at anything. Caitlin was _sure_ that if he caught sight of her hovering hand, she would never hear the end of it…

"Hola, Catalina!" Cisco hollered, practically bouncing out of the dorms. "How do I look?"

Caitlin appraised his Star Wars shirt, the checked polo he wore over it, and his usual pair of dark jeans and nondescript rubber shoes. "Um… Like you always do?"

"What! Doesn't my outfit exude 'just chilling with all them cool kids'? No?"

"I suppose it's very… laid back."

"Mother of—Cait, are you seriously wearing _that_ to a date?"

Caitlin glanced at Jax, who came up behind Cisco in a suave getup of black pants and a forest-green v-neck pullover, and glanced down on her sweater and jeans. "We're going to Oliver's apartment, so I didn't see the need to dress up. And it's _not_ a date. It's a movie night with friends."

"Lis warned me you'd say something like that," Jax mumbled. "Look, we better get you into something presentable."

"I'm not an object to be decorated and flaunted," Caitlin said hotly. "Besides, I don't like Barry Allen romantically, so there's no need to impress him."

It was at that precise moment that Cisco chose to have insight into the emotional undertones of the conversation. He and Jax exchanged looks, and Cisco's eyes widened. "Cait, you're really into Barry, aren't you?"

"Bleeding—why does _everyone_ keep saying that?"

"The denial is strong in this one."

Jax nodded sagely. "She even dressed down because she's too concerned about the 'non-romantic-ness' of the date."

"What's that called in psychology?"

"I don't know man, but this smells pretty defense-mechanismy."

"I'm _right here_ , thank you very much."

"Jax is right, Cait," Cisco said. "If this is your first date with Barry—or like your first date _ever_ —you might want to dress up a bit."

Caitlin huffed. "Fine. Make me."

She really shouldn't have threatened them, because they made good on her challenge and practically dragged her back to the girls' dorms. The people milling about were beginning to give them queer looks, so Caitlin finally grudgingly obliged them to give her a "makeover". She grumbled her way back to her room, where she duly Skype-d her clothing to Jax and Cisco, and Jax—who grew up with his mother and who'd dated girls with killer fashion sense—gave a running commentary on her clothing, while Cisco couldn't stop gushing about her new STAR Labs sweater. In any case, by the time she finally unearthed a pair of black skinny jeans and a white scoop-neck blouse that Jax approved of, Caitlin felt like an utter failure of a woman and was seriously questioning societal norms of femininity and womanhood.

"Well," she said sullenly, emerging from the dorms in an outfit that she didn't even remember possessing, "how do I look?"

Cisco and Jax fell silent when they saw her.

And then, "Wow, Cait, since when did you have _boobs_?—OW! Sorry, I swear I only meant it in a scientific way…"

"One more thing," Jax said. He tugged the elastic band out of her hair, ignoring her protests. "You look better with your hair down. Trust me, this way Barry won't be able to keep his eyes off you."

* * *

 **Notes:** I know you guys were expecting the date, I swear I didn't mean to move it to the next chap but… This chapter refused to be written without a meddling Cisco and Jax (I've tried but I got stuck every time). Hope you enjoyed it anyway. As for those wondering when Barry and Cait will get to talk seriously, it WILL happen, I assure you. It's only their first week of meeting so I'm trying pace the development of their relationship according to that timeline. Please review? I'll pop up again in a week or so with an update. Merry Christmas everyone!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:** So… This is late again… (Hides) I'm really sorry, I was stuck and I put this off for way too long. Thank you though for sticking with me despite that, and I owe the shaking-out from my dry spell to a few people. Shoutout to AReiss215, whose constant encouragement keeps me thinking about this fic; Duchess Emma, whose feedback is always delightful and instructive; tifa1984, for Snowbarry and Flash rants and raves; Bunny in a Box, my wonderful flesh-and-blood friend who allowed herself to be dragged into this fandom's fanfiction; and Title Unwanted, for rambling and conversing with me on Flash, FT, life, and a bunch of other things. Also, I am a broken record by now, but a big thank you to all the reviewers! You guys keep me writing.

Without further ado, here is the non-date. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Caitlin briefly entertained the absurd notion that she had just discovered the eighth wonder of the world in the form of Barry Allen's forearms.

She'd seen many pairs of forearms before, and she'd certainly seen more than just Barry Allen's forearms (especially in that track suit—mother of all things holy, someone should _outlaw_ those), but there was something undeniably appealing about the way he'd rolled up the long sleeves of his red polo to his elbows, so that only his tanned, well-muscled forearms were exposed. It certainly didn't help that he was also wearing black slacks and a pair of shiny dark-brown Oxfords, and he looked so dashing and effortlessly classy that she was feeling a bit flushed and faint and legitimately worried for her sanity because _damn,_ suddenly all those disgustingly trite phrases like having butterflies in one's stomach and melting into a puddle of goo made sense even if empirically speaking she never experienced swallowing butterflies or being in temperatures so high that her skin would melt off her bones…

She also tried not to look at, well, his… gluteal muscles, but it was very hard not to, especially because he'd tucked in his shirt, and his slacks fitted him well. _Too_ well. _Criminally_ well. It was as if he'd donned those pants specifically to taunt her to tou— _hover_ above his backside.

Bleeding Felicity. She bet she'd never even _notice_ it if she hadn't given her that bleeding dare—

"I'll translate that look for you," Jax said to Cisco in a stage whisper, as they were securing their bikes in front of the restaurant Oliver had picked (and, because it was Oliver, it just _had_ to be one of the pricier ones in the area). "' _Hot damn_ , Barry Allen is looking so damn _fine_ '—"

Cisco snickered and added, "'Good _lawd_ , I didn't know forearms could be sexual but Barry Allen's just makes me so _naughty_ '—"

"'Whew, I need some air and a few seconds to get my ovaries together'—"

Caitlin shut them up with withering glares.

"Sorry," Jax sniggered, not sounding sorry at all. "Come on, Cait, lighten up. Breathe. Barry's real fine, no homo, but you're looking pretty fine yourself."

"I'm breathing normally," Caitlin said.

Her remark was ignored. "You got this," Cisco nodded solemnly, patting her on the back.

"And we got your back," Jax grinned.

But when they stepped in front of the restaurant, Cisco and Jax quickly monopolised Oliver's attention ("Mi amigo Oliver!" "Broliver!" "Olibruh!" "Olibae, my bae of the day!") while Felicity tried to mitigate the damage of having such embarrassments for friends ("Oh _god_ , I knew it was a mistake to let them come, I'm so sorry, Oliver"), leaving Caitlin to fend for herself.

"Hey," she heard him say, and flinched when he nudged her so she would turn to acknowledge him.

She did so reluctantly, and came face-to-face with his wolfish grin.

"Well," he drawled, giving her a discreet head-to-toe sweep that sent all the heat rushing to her face, had her biting her lip and hoping, rather stupidly, that he liked what he saw—"you're looking quite aesthetically pleasing."

It took a few moments, but when she recognised her own words in his compliment, she scowled. "Well, Barry," she returned, a little more acerbically than she had intended, "I suppose red isn't the worst color on you."

His grin widened. "You called me Barry."

"So?" she crossed her arms. "Isn't that your name?"

"Yeah, but I don't remember really hearing you say it. Weird, huh?"

She pursed her lips and tried to recall instances of her doing so if only to prove him wrong, but it seemed she had no memory of it, either. But then, she suspected she never called him by his name only because she never had to. Well, she did call him "Barry Allen" in her mind, but of course she wasn't going to make him privy to the fact that he was frequently in her mind in the first place, no matter how unwelcome he was. "And you noticed this because…?"

"Guess I'm a very observant person," he shrugged. "Like how I noticed you were totally cheering for me during my meet."

She narrowed her eyes at him, knowing instantly that it was impossible for him to focus on anything other than winning while he was running at the speed he was. "Please. I would never do something so undignified."

"There's a first time for everything," he smirked, leaning closer. For once, emboldened by the knowledge that he was obviously bluffing (even if what he was bluffing about wasn't untrue), Caitlin fought the urge to flinch away at the invasion of her personal space, and she stood her ground. "You were very loud,after all."

She scoffed. "Oh, you wish."

"Oh, I do."

With a composure that didn't seem to be hers, Caitlin replied dismissively, "The innuendoing is getting old. I've become desensitised to it by now."

He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and smirked. "Listen to _them,_ " he said, tilting his head to her friends. "I think they're talking about us."

Caitlin pursed her lips and tuned in to the barely-hushed tones of her friends.

"…are they flirting?" Cisco seemed to be saying.

"I don't know, there seems to be a lot of hostility on Caitlin's part," said Oliver.

" _Shhh!"_ Felicity hissed. "I can't hear them!"

"Dude, maybe that's what they call repressed attraction," Cisco said sagely.

"We should lock them up in a dark place before it escalates," Jax suggested.

"We should get rid of them quickly," Cisco agreed. "Also because I'm _starving_. If you second the motion say aye!"

" _Shhh!"_

"Aye!" Jax chirped.

Caitlin turned to Barry. "I'm really sorry about them," she muttered, resigned. "They have the mental and emotional capacity of five-year-olds."

"Don't be," he said, looking very amused. "I think I'm really going to enjoy tonight…"

* * *

The night, however, took a turn for the worst.

Aside from the fact that Barry Allen was in it, aside from her friends' exaggerated attempts to set them up, _and_ aside from that stupid dare still hanging over her head, Caitlin had to deal with the awful logistics of the "group dinner", which, due to lack of bigger tables, quickly turned into "dinner-in-pairs" (she adamantly steered clear of the word "date").

The moment they stepped into the restaurant, they were informed that there were no more tables left for a group more than four, but they did have tables of two that were close to each other. Caitlin immediately suggested another place that wasn't so packed at this time, but Felicity—after shooting her an evil grin—dragged Oliver over to a table, while Cisco and Jax followed suit, the former flashing her his sorry-not-sorry eyebrow-wags.

And, of course, the table left was the furthest from the others—Cisco and Jax were a good two tables away, and Felicity and Oliver were adjacent to the former. This left her to share that table with Barry Allen and his insufferable amusement at her discomfort.

"Just to clear things up," Caitlin said tersely as she followed him to their seats, "this is _not_ a date."

"Sure," he said, looking so smugly calm that Caitlin wanted to strangle the look off his face. He thanked the waiter for their menus and handed one to her. "It can be whatever you want it to be, Caitlin."

"The patronising tone isn't appreciated."

"The hostility isn't appreciated," he returned amiably, skimming the items on the main entrée page.

"I am _not_ being hostile."

"Have you ever been on a date?"

His change of topic was so sudden, and he didn't even pause from perusing the menu, that Caitlin was at a complete loss at how to process the question. She furrowed her brow. "Come again?"

He looked amused at her confusion. "You know, a date. Something that's like this, but with romantic intention. And hearty mutual consent."

"I know what a date is," she muttered, and because she felt uncomfortable she tried catching Cisco's or Felicity's eye, but they seemed to be staunchly avoiding direct eye contact. Those bastards—she knew they were periodically taking peeks at their table, anyway.

"So? Have you?" he folded the menu and leaned his elbows on the table. "I mean, I'm sure you're not being hostile because you dislike _me_ , so it must be because this is actually your first time being out on something like a date."

She rolled her eyes. "Your self-confidence is astounding."

"Well, am I wrong?" he said with a cheeky smile. "Do you dislike me?"

Caitlin grimaced and surreptitiously inched her menu up, hoping to cover her face with it. "Not overly much."

"That's very heartwarming," he said, still grinning. "So, since you don't dislike me, you're being snappy because you've never been on a date."

"I didn't _say_ that—"

"So you _have_?"

"Would you _please_ stop interrupting me—"

"Wow, Caitlin, I never pegged you as a serial dater—"

"—and stop jumping to such _ridiculous_ conclusions—"

"—I mean, I just _never_ imagined you to be all romantic—hey, don't be mad, I was just teasing," he said, when she had huffed and put her menu down on the table. He grinned, leaned back against his chair, and held both his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "See, I'll shut up now and let you answer."

She glared at him. "We should order first," she declared. "I need some liquid now."

" _Liquid_?" he repeated. "You mean drinks?"

"No, I mean steak," she snapped.

"But who says _liquid_ for drinks?"

"Shut up," she grumbled. "I may have temporarily forgotten the more appropriate word for it."

"Alright," he allowed, obviously containing his laughter, "I'll flag down a waiter and order your _liquid_ for you."

Caitlin gasped in horror and hissed, "Don't make it sound sexual!"

" _What_?" He seemed genuinely surprised. "I didn't even intend it to be sexual!"

She groaned in frustration, feeling even more flustered than usual for misreading him. "Your presence is polluting my mind!"

He grinned. "Looks like I've fulfilled my purpose in life."

"Oh you—you're _insufferable_ —"

"Insufferably charming, I know—"

"—and _incorrigible_ —"

"—but damn it, now I wish I made it sound sexual—"

"Mmmgrh!" Caitlin shoved her menu away and crossed her arms, resolving to ignore him for the rest of the meal. She can't even fathomwhy she allowed him to occupy a huge portion of her thoughts for the past week, because he _clearly_ was incapable of carrying out a sensible conversation with another human being!

A waiter finally approached their table, and judging by the placid smile on his face, he was completely oblivious to their bickering. "Hi," he said, "are you ready to order?"

"Hi, yes," Caitlin said, pointedly ignoring Barry Allen, who was still suffering from paroxysms of laughter. "I'd like—"

"—t-the lady would like s-some _l-liquid!_ —"

"—a chicken cordon bleu and a Coke, please," Caitlin said, through gritted teeth, but Barry Allen didn't catch the warning in her tone, because he'd been reduced to incoherence over his own antics. The night was just beginning and already Caitlin felt that this was going to be the longest, most excruciating dinner of her life.

* * *

 **(19:12) cait**

 **(19:12) cait**

 **(19:12) CAIT**

 **(19:12) CAITLIIIIIIIIN**

 **(19:12) omg ok sorta breaking news**

 **(19:13) like when u were walking to the restroom**

 **(19:13) barry couldnt stop checking u out**

 **(19:13) like**

 **(19:13) hes obvious af**

 **(19:13) i swear his eyes were on ur ass**

 **(19:14) those r nice pants btw**

 **(19:14) jax is v proud**

 **(19:14) fr now on**

 **(19:14) hes in charge of dolling u up for dates**

 **(19:14) also**

 **(19:14) cisco just txted**

 **(19:15) u & barry r calling ur thing a date**

 **(19:15) ?!**

 **(19:15) barry asked if you liked him**

 **(19:15) ?!**

 **(19:15) omfggg waht did u say**

 **(19:15) also**

 **(19:15) ur sharing a drink w him**

 **(19:15) ?!**

 **(19:15) this is going even better thn i expected tbh**

(19:15) Cisco misheard everything

(19:15) I'm going to turn my phone off if you keep spamming me

 **(19:16) what i alwys spam u**

 **(19:16) also u still havnt hovered**

 **(19:16) im watching**

(19:16) Go away

 **(19:16) whyyyy**

 **(19:16) r u mad**

(19:16) No it's just

(19:16) Barry Allen is very stressful, okay

 **(19:16) hoho k understood**

 **(19:17) ill leave u kids alone**

 **(19:17) keep it PG k ;)**

(19:17) Stop spamming

 **(19:17)** **fine fine!**

 **(19:17)** **stopping**

* * *

Caitlin decided to spend a few more minutes in the restroom. She'd excused herself right after she gave the waiter her order, because she just needed some _silence_ and a few deep breaths to gather her wits about her. She wasn't joking when she said that Barry Allen was stressful—she never realised she would ever be so viscerally frustrated with anyone in her entire life. Caitlin had always prided herself in her ability to maintain composure in the face of pressure-cooker situations that would have otherwise sent a normal person into nervous breakdowns, and even if she _was_ in the middle of a nervous breakdown, she had learned to never let it show.

But there was just _something_ about Barry Allen that unravelled the perfectly ironed fabric of her composure until she was a mess of frayed ends. He frustrated and flustered and _confused_ the hell out of her; he made her stomp in frustration, blush on contact, fist her hands in irritation… He defied explanation, did not fit the system she'd devise to make sense of the world.

And, alright, she would concede that he was, well, _pleasant_ to look at, but he was a downright _terrible_ conversationalist—he was overly impressed by his own wit (if his constant innuendoing could even be _considered_ wit), and he seemed to derive fun from conversing only if it meant hearing his own jokes. Come to think of it, all their conversations consisted of his jokes—he hadn't really disclosed much about himself (besides his thing with Linda during their first meeting, where doubtless the darkness and anonymity contributed to his trusting her), and she didn't _have_ to disclose anything because he never asked. Or he asked, like awhile ago, but didn't seem to care for an answer.

But then, if he'd started with small talk instead of this relentless teasing, she doubted she would be as receptive to him, anyway. She doubted she would've paid as much attention to him if he'd been distant and polite, or even friendly and polite.

She frowned. Alright, so maybe it was unfair to call him a terrible conversationalist. She didn't know if he was like this with other people, but she supposed that others would have found his wit enjoyable. Cisco, for one, commended Barry Allen for his punning. But the problem was he punned at her expense, and he teased precisely because it made her uncomfortable. And while he was occasionally… _tolerable_ , she did not enjoy being one-upped by him every time he twisted her words or said something that made her squirm.

Fine, so maybe she was frustrated at him because he was constantly outwitting her, and she wasn't used to being outwitted.

Caitlin pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Well, she would just have to make sure that it didn't happen, at least for the rest of the night. Felicity's dare was still hanging over her head, but with Barry Allen's posterior firmly on a chair, she doubted she would able to get anywhere near it, anyway. So for the next thirty or so minutes she would just focus on preserving her sanity.

Caitlin stood from the toilet seat and straightened her blouse. A plan was already forming in her mind, and hopefully it would even out the playing field, if only for the night.

* * *

On her way back to her table, she took a detour to Cisco's, and promptly gave him a smack upside his head. "Ow! Hey! What's your pro—oh, hi, Cait," he said, his irritation quickly transforming into a sheepish smile. "So, how's your _date_?"

"Yeah, Caitlin," Jax said, taking a sip of his drink, "looks like you guys are having fun."

"Stop eavesdropping on our conversations," she hissed. "And stop giving Felicity"—she gave her blonde friend a glare when she looked up at the mention of her name—"more fodder for her matchmaking!"

"No can do," Cisco said cheerily. "Look, the waiter thought Jax and I are _lovers_. At least Barry's the sex you're attracted to, so you don't have it as bad."

"Yeah, and you don't have to fight to figure out the more feminine one in the relationship," Jax said. "I say it's definitely Cisco—"

"Just because _I_ have fabulous hair and you have _none_ ," Cisco scoffed. "Dude, you're being sexist. And hairist."

Caitlin rolled her eyes. "You can both be masculine _and_ feminine. There's no need to identify a fem—"

"Dude!" Cisco's eyes lit up, and he looked like he was having a eureka moment. "If I'm the girl, you're paying for my dinner!"

"No way," Jax scoffed incredulously, "you're a strong independent woman, y'know, so we're going dutch…"

She sighed, wondering how anyone managed to talk any sense with either of them, and decided to make her way back to their table. Barry Allen seemed to be playing a game of pick-up-sticks with toothpicks when she returned.

"Hey!" he said when he caught sight of her, beaming. "What took you so long?"

She slipped into her seat. "I was savouring my time away from you."

"Ouch. Here I was, patiently awaiting your return, and this is my reward."

Caitlin ignored his theatrics. "I have a proposition for you," she said instead, folding her hands on top of the table.

"Oooh," he said, leaning forward, and the stupid muscles on his stupid forearms became more stupidly— _pronounced_ —right, now she was getting distracted by stupid peripheral details, and the only adjective she seemed to be capable of saying was _stupid_ , and she felt, well, quite stupid for it. When her eyes finally flicked up from his forearms to his face, he was giving her a lazy grin. "I already like the sound of this."

"It's very simple," she said, staunchly avoiding his forearms. "I'd just like to have dinner in peace without having the urge to strangle you."

"Or kiss me," he said slyly, tapping his cheek. His game of pick-up-sticks was now completely abandoned. "What?" he gave her a toothy smile at her glare. "Sometimes love and hate aren't so different."

" _So_ ," she continued through gritted teeth, "this proposition involves establishing rules of engagement for our conversations for the rest of the night. For example, no innuendoes of a… pseudo-flirtatious nature are allowed. What you just said, for example, isn't allowed—"

"But—"

"—and no interrupting each other's sentences."

"But that won't be fun," he groaned.

"Well, it will be for _me_."

"Who establishes rules of engagement for conversations, anyway?" he pouted. "Aren't conversations supposed to be spontaneous and all?"

"No, not really," Caitlin said. "Most conversations follow a set of implicit rules. Job interviews, for example, are highly structured conversations where the interviewer is the only one allowed to ask questions and the interviewee is expected to answer each question, as the possibility of declining to answer is precluded from—"

"Ah, I see," he said, his pout transforming into a smirk, and Caitlin thought faintly _god that smirk is sexy_ —a thought which she quickly swatted away, because damn it, she can't afford to be distracted by his stu—his insufferably good looks! "You want to interview me. You want to get to know me better."

Caitlin gaped at him. "You," she said, gritting are teeth, "are _completely_ missing the point again!"

"Well, I _am_ flattered that you want to get to know me so badly, although it took you awhi—"

" _Bleeding_ —can you _please_ stop that—"

"Gotcha!" he beamed. "You just violated your own rule! You interrupted me! Now _I_ get to choose a reward."

"I didn't say anything about a reward!"

"Relax, Caitlin," he said, and they paused as the waiter came over with their food. After they thanked him—brightly, on Barry Allen's part, and tersely, on Caitlin's—he resumed speaking. "If you get to set the rules, I think I deserve to choose the topics."

" _Absolutely not._ I retract the rules of engagement. Can we just mutually agree to an armistice? As in, not speak for the rest of this dinner?"

"Nope," he said. "Besides, these will be perfectly tame and polite topics," he said, giving her an innocent smile as he popped a fry in his mouth and took a sip of his milkshake.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Now you're just being suspicious."

He shrugged. "So, Caitlin, what's your favourite colour?" he said, still wearing that irritatingly false-innocent smile.

Caitlin glared at him and shoved a spoonful of chicken cordon bleu into her mouth.

"Mine is red, by the way," he continued. "Partly because most of my favourite superheroes wear red, and it's symbolic for courage and all. But it's really mostly because I look smashing in red. Don't you think?"

She chewed on her food and swallowed. "Blue," she replied shortly. "I prefer blue."

"Really?" he flashed her a grin. "But you look good in white."

She rolled her eyes, dabbed at her mouth with tissue, and folded it into a small rectangle afterwards. "Unlike you," she said, inwardly quite pleased with the nonchalance of her manner and tone (she suspected it didn't fluster her because it didn't sound sincere), "I don't base my colour preferences on whether or not it suits me. Can we move on to another topic?"

He laughed. "Very well, milady," he said. "Favourite dead scientist?"

She paused. "Now that's difficult." She bit her bottom lip, thinking. "I don't think I'd call her my favourite scientist, but I went through a very strong Rosalind Franklin phase when I was ten… I'd just felt so _mad_ that her contributions to the discovery of the molecular structure of DNA were practically stolen by Watson and Crick. I mean, they could have at least acknowledged how large a role her work on X-ray diffraction techniques played—"

Caitlin stopped abruptly when she realised that she had been rambling, and that Barry had just been listening and looking intently at her the entire time—the burger he'd been intending to take a bite out of seemed to be forgotten in his hands. She pressed her lips into a line and squirmed in her seat. "Anyway, yes, probably Rosalind Franklin. Um, how about yours?"

"Mine?" he said. A look of confusion passed over his face. "Oh, right, my favourite scientist. Right, right. Well… it'd have to be Thomas Edison."

She wrinkled her nose. "Thomas Edison was a misogynist."

"I didn't say he was my favourite _person_ ," he returned dryly, now taking a bite of his burger. He chewed quickly and swallowed. "I mean, a lot of the greatest thinkers in history were misogynists, and it might just be in retrospect that we can call them that, because now women's rights are, you know, getting a lot of attention and publicity and all. As it _should,_ and all. But you have to admit that without Edison, we wouldn't have lightbulbs, or cameras, or… Yeah. Well, next topic—"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You're uncomfortable."

He seemed to bristle. "I'm—what?"

For some reason, she marvelled, Barry Allen—the embodiment of cockiness and confidence—seemed almost… insecure at having to articulate an intelligent opinion. He seemed to be building towards an argument, but he rushed his words towards the end of his sentence, and he abruptly changed the topic before he could really make his point. Caitlin put her fork down, looked at him curiously, and said, "You're uncomfortable about voicing your opinions."

"What? No," he said, a little too quickly, and snorted. "No, the topic just seemed boring, that's all."

"Being boring shouldn't make you stutter," she said. "And besides, _I_ found it interesting."

"Well, I didn't plan on taking dead scientists seriously until you did," he said, and the look he gave her was strange again, and Caitlin wasn't sure but it was either amusement or admiration or—

"So," he said quickly, wagging his eyebrows, "what was your favourite date?"

The earlier discomfort she had sensed in his manner was gone, and he seemed to have returned to his usual self. She frowned. Had she been imagining it?

"Well," she said, choosing to ignore it for now, "'favourite' assumes that one has more than one choice…"

"Mmm," he said. "So that means you only had one date?"

"Not technically," she muttered.

"A… half-date?" he hedged.

"I…" she sighed, and figured that she wouldn't lose anything by telling him. "I didn't know it was a date until it was over," she finally said.

"Go on," he said, and added, "I swear I won't interrupt."

She gave him a sceptical look. "I was tutoring this guy named Ronnie," she began slowly. When it seemed like he really did plan on listening to her without making any wisecracks, she continued. "And one day he invited to have coffee with him. He had a test the next day, so of course I'd assumed he asked me out so I could review the coverage with him. But when he brought me home he said 'Maybe we can go out again some time'… and well, Felicity said that that meant it was a date and that he'd intended to ask me out again."

"Poor guy," he said. "Probably worked up so much nerve to ask you out and it happened only because you didn't even _know_ it was one. What was the dude like? Why didn't you go on that second date with him? And no one's ever asked you out after that? Have you even kissed anyone before?"

She raised a brow at him. "This is starting to sound like a job interview."

"Nah, it's called getting to know you," he said, grinning. "So?"

Caitlin shifted in her seat. "Well," she said, pushing her discomfort aside, "he was pleasant and actually very smart—apparently he only pretended he needed help in physics so he'd be able to spend time with me, or so his friends say—but he wasn't… Or rather I wasn't… well, attracted to him. To your latter questions: no, and no."

"Why not?"

"I guess I avoid most social gatherings, so the probability of meeting anyone new is severely lessened," she said dryly. "And when I do go out for some drinks, I don't find kissing random strangers appealing. Or any show of affection in general. You know this already."

"Yeah, and I changed it," he said, grinning. "Does that mean I was technically your first kiss?"

Her cheeks warmed at the memory of them in the dark, of the heat emanating from his body. _I have a malfunctioning sympathetic nervous system which causes blood to rush to my face for no apparent reason,_ she attempted to rationalise. She hated her sympathetic nervous system. "An eskimo kiss done on a dare doesn't count."

"Sure it does."

"No it doesn't."

"Sure it does."

" _No,_ it _does not…_ "

* * *

For the rest of their dinner, Barry Allen seemed to have reverted to their pre-rules of engagement state, and he pestered her continuously about her current dare, which she felt too embarrassed to even _think_ of in his presence, much less disclose to him. She was so caught up in bickering with him that she started when her phone vibrated with a text from Felicity, informing her that all four of them had finished eating and paying fifteen minutes ago, and they were just waiting for her and Barry. Caitlin flushed, embarrassed that she'd completely lost track of time, and hastily called for the bill. Thankfully, Barry Allen offered little resistance when she insisted that they split it.

As they made their way out of the restaurant, Barry leaned over to her and said, "Hey, dating me wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That sounds like a trick question."

He flashed her another strange smile, but instead of replying to her, he turned to Cisco and Jax to comment on a part of their conversation that had gotten his attention.

Caitlin was left staring at his back, feeling very confused. What was the purpose of asking her that? Would her answer to it determine whether or not he would ask her out in the future? But that would indicate that he was interested, and even after spending an hour with him in a setting that simulated the aspects of a date, she still couldn't tell whether he was interested or not. Well, there was Felicity's 'breaking news' of him checking her out, but… surely he'd checked girls out without any intention of asking them out. Besides, she'd seen her own posterior, and in her opinion it was rather unremarkable…

" _Sooo_ ," Felicity said slyly, sidling up beside her as Oliver joined the boys, "how was it?"

Caitlin glanced at her friend. "Fine," Caitlin replied shortly. "I was able to refrain from strangling him."

"Oh, come on," her friend scoffed. "You lost track of time, and you both still had food left on your plates when you paid the bill. You obviously enjoyed talking to each other, because what else could make you forget about your food?"

"It was hardly meaningful conversation," she protested.

"Mmm, sure. Hey, Cait," Felicity said, looping her arm Caitlin's and ignored the way Caitlin wrinkled her nose at the gesture. "Do you remember how we all became friends? You know, you, me, and Cisco, back in high school."

Caitlin gave her a wary look. "Where are you going with this?"

"We were classmates in first year math," she prompted, insistent. "And we were groupmates for the final project, remember? And Cisco and I couldn't stop talking around you, because you actually _listened_ to our rambling. I think I speak for both him and myself when I say that before that, no one was really interested in what we had to say. I mean, yeah, they tolerated us, but to find people who listened was pretty rare."

"Well, I had no choice in the matter."

"Hey!" Felicity slapped her arm, and she grumbled in protest. "But," she continued, "it took you awhile before you finally warmed up to us. A month, tops. And you're like that with most people—you have this warming-up threshold, and it's a really steep slope to get to it. But, with Barry, I don't know, it's like… he cleared that slope in a step. It's like that slope didn't even exist for him."

"He makes me mad, that's all," Caitlin grumbled. "Or frustrated. Or—just, I don't think it's what you think it is."

"Cait," Felicity said, "maybe you should consider that it might not be what you keep telling yourself it is, either."

"He just came from a break-up," Caitlin insisted weakly, "so he can't be interested."

Felicity gave her a cat-like smile. "Maybe he is, and you're just not letting yourself see it."

By the time they split up in the parking lot—Barry was hitching a ride with Oliver and Felicity—Caitlin felt unsure of herself again. She watched him walk away, chatting animatedly with Oliver, and felt her heart clench at the sudden absurd prospect of wanting something she couldn't have. But the feeling was brief and elusive, and it wouldn't resurface again until much later on.

In the meantime, she _still_ had a dare to accomplish…

* * *

 **Notes:** I didn't intend to end there, but it felt right to lol. I'm not too pleased with this chapter, though, since I had a hard time with the Snowbarry interactions… I hope the more serious turn didn't seem out-of-character from how I've portrayed them so far. In other news, a few more reviewers have asked if I'll ever write in Barry's POV—I've already planned most of the scenes in Caitlin's POV, but there are one or two scenes which might be interesting in Barry's POV. But then, I'm not sure if I'm violating some rule about using third-person limited… so… short answer is we'll see. Also, I've tweaked the text format for easier reading, as per Raquel's request. Hope it's better.

Thanks for reading. Up next: Movie night at Oliver's, and other shenanigans.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** By now I feel you're all like, "A wild update has appeared!" I know, I know, I'm very sorry. This chapter was just really difficult to write. Thank you again for all your reviews! I enjoyed reading every one of them. They are my lifeblood.

* * *

During the bumpy trip to Oliver's place on the back of Cisco's bike, amidst a stream of chatter about the merits of Lisa's hair and speculations on what brand of conditioner she used ("It would be like, sort of romantic if we used the same brand," said Cisco dreamily), Caitlin was finally able to concoct a strategy that involved maximal discretion and a minimal loss of dignity in executing the dare.

It was quite a simple, really. In fact, it was so simple that she had already neatly summarised her plan in three words: 1) Detain, 2) Distract, and 3) Divert.

In _Phase One: Detain_ , all she had to do was to make sure that Cisco, Jax, and Oliver would walk ahead of her, and then ask Felicity to pretend to drop something so she'd fall behind to watch the dare. The best time to do it would be during the trip to Oliver's room from the elevator, since Oliver was one of the two people who resided on the top floor, and she had to use the absence of possible spectators to her advantage.

In _Phase Two: Distract_ , she had to make sure that his attention was on anything other than her hovering hand. And, when he was about to make any suspicious head movements, she would proceed to _Phase Three: Divert_ , which simply meant she had to skilfully steer him back to her desired conversational topic.

Feeling quite satisfied with her plan (summarised in alliterating verbs, no less), Caitlin thought that she had therefore no reason to worry. It was only ten seconds, after all. That was a very short amount of time, right? Nothing much happens in ten seconds, right?

(Of course, Caitlin should have realised that by issuing such a challenge to the universe, she had practically begged it to prove her wrong—and prove her wrong it will. But, for the moment, she was blissfully unaware of how, exactly, things would go wrong, because if she had been privy to that information, she wouldn't have dared approach Barry Allen within a 50-mile radius.)

Presently, they pulled up Oliver's apartment building. As they were securing the bikes, she, Cisco, and Jax had a spirited debate over what sort of ornamental animal corpse they would find in Oliver's flat, since they were all under the impression that he hunted in exotic locales during his spare time. Cisco adamantly insisted that there would be a polar bear rug named Paul ("Not just a polar bear, but a PAULar bear, get it?" They did, but they didn't get why the rug had to be named). Jax was of the firm belief that Oliver would have the head of a moose mounted on his wall ("There ain't nothing manlier than a moose!"). Caitlin fancied that he would have an ermine, but her speculation was immediately shot down, as, according to Cisco and Jax, no one knew what ermines _were,_ and when Caitlin described it and elucidated on the value of its fur, they protested that ermines sounded like they were _cute_ , and did _Oliver_ look like the type to collect cute things?

The argument was finally resolved when Caitlin huffed and conceded that a moose was more likely than a PAULar bear, and she declined to join the subsequent discussion on how many game controllers Oliver had (it seemed to them a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a good fortune must have at least one of the latest PlayStations).

Instead she steeled herself to set her plan in motion. She made a beeline towards Barry Allen, who was retrieving his coat and laptop from the backseat of Oliver's car.

"Hi," she said.

A look of confusion briefly flitted across his features, before his face split into his trademark grin. "Well, hello there. Miss me already?"

Oliver and Felicity were already making their way towards the entrance, and Cisco and Jax had scampered to Oliver's side to interrogate him on the other gadgets he had, and whether or not it was possible to play Grand Theft Auto with surround sound.

 _Phase One: Detain,_ she thought, taking on the detached internal narration she often employed during stressful situations. _Status: Accomplished._

"I have a business point to discuss with you," she said smoothly, in the way that rehearsing the line about twenty times in her head would do. "It's regarding Dr. Wells's offer to use the equipment in STAR Labs for our theses."

 _Phase Two: Distract. Status: Commenced._

His eyes widened. "Oh, right! Shit, I haven't even had time to plan my thesis yet. Have you—oh, wait, _of_ _course_ you have."

"I haven't written my proposal yet," she said evasively. In truth, she already had an outline for the introduction and a methods section (plus an alternate one, in case of unsuccessful results). They started walking towards the entrance. "I mean, it's not due 'til the next semester, but I want to start as early as possible."

"And you want _me_ to accompany you?" he grinned, slinging his coat over his shoulder.

She shifted. She had anticipated this line of conversation. "Well, it would certainly be less intimidating if we went together."

"Ah, I see," he smirked. "That'll be our second date, then."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "We've had this argument."

"Which we haven't settled, to my knowledge," he added. "Although date, non-date, hanging out, whatever you call it, it's all the same, semantically."

"I think there's a substantial semantic gap between _lab partners_ and _hanging out_."

"So that's all I am to you?" His brow furrowed. "A lab partner?"

She spluttered. "You're contradicting your own—"

"Think about it well," he said, with a mock-solemn air, "because there _is_ a right answer, and it starts with the letter _N_."

She huffed. "This is ridiculous."

"Wrong! Try again. It rhymes with _Bartholo._ "

"You're pronouncing your own name wrong."

"Well, it _is_ my name. I have the pronouncing rights to it."

"Not even _you_ pronounce it like that."

"Oh, come on, Caitlin," he coaxed, "just say it."

"Wait, I don't even remember what you're trying to achieve with this…"

"You don't have to remember. Just say it. _Saaay iiiiit_ …"

"CAITLIN! BARRY!" Cisco called from the elevators, "Hurry up! A gamer's wet dream lies ahead!"

Oliver scrunched his nose.

"Oh, yeah, sorry!" Barry called back, just Felicity swatted Cisco's arm and hissed something in his ear. "Race ya, Cait! Winner gets to choose what to call our STAR Labs outing, and loser says theword, okay? Ready, set—"

" _What!_ That's not _fair_ —"

"— _go!_ "

Barry won, of course, and Caitlin didn't even bother breaking into a light jog. She glared at him when she reached the mouth of the entrance.

He grinned back. "Don't be a sore loser, Cait."

Cisco's eyes lit up. "Yeah, Cait, eat a lemon, will you?" And then he dissolved into peals of laughter.

Barry gave him a puzzled look. "A lemon…?"

"Oh my god," Felicity groaned. "It's a Caitlin joke."

Barry raised an eyebrow in interest. "A _Caitlin_ joke?"

"What?" Jax appeared confused. "Where was the joke?"

"Exactly," Felicity muttered.

"Hey," Caitlin said weakly, face heating up at having to be the center of attention (and possibly ridicule), " _you_ laughed at it."

"The first time," Felicity said. "It was _one_ time."

"Yo, can someone explain the joke first?"

The elevator pinged open, and they all filed in. Oliver held it open and pushed the button for the twentieth floor. In the meantime, Cisco finally caught his breath, and he placed his hand on Jax's shoulder so he could stand up properly. " _Sour_ is a homonym for _sore_ in sore loser," he said exuberantly, "and a lemon is sour!"

There was a brief silence.

"I… fail to see the connection," Oliver said.

"I can't even polite-laugh, y'know," Jax said.

"Maybe it's not funny anymore because it had to be explained," Barry said diplomatically.

(Later on, when they were all settled in Oliver's apartment, Caitlin would read the text Felicity sent regarding Barry's comment: _omg he dEFENDED UR JOKE HE IS THE ONE!—_ a message which Caitlin would choose to ignore.)

"What? Seriously, guys? Lighten up! That was one of Caitlin's best moments."

"Wouldn't want to hear her at her worst," Jax quipped, and the others laughed.

Caitlin shot him a sullen glare.

He beamed at her. "No hard feelings, Cait. You're still the smartest chick I know." At Felicity's dagger-glare and Oliver's hard look, he amended, "Er, one of the two smartest chicks I know?"

"We're not _chicks_ ," Felicity and Caitlin protested at the same time.

Jax held up his hands in surrender. "Sorry, sorry, I meant _women—_ don't kill me—"

The elevator came to a halt, and the mood shifted. Cisco and Jax immediately regained their enthusiasm, Felicity shot Caitlin a very smug look, and Caitlin was trying not to show her dread.

Felicity made a vague excuse to lag behind, and Barry briefly expressed concern, but Caitlin quickly monopolised his attention. "So, Barry," she said, her fingers twitching at her side, "what's your thesis about?"

 _Phase Two: Distract. Status: In Progress. Poised to engage._

"My thesis?" he lit up. "Oh, it's about the optimisation of luminol photography in crime scenes…"

Caitlin took a discreet breath, and then very, very slowly, raised her arm to a 45-degree angle from her side. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she was sure that her cheeks were pink from the prospect of utter humiliation, but she somehow managed a believable poker-face.

 _Target engaged. Countdown commencing. Thousand one, thousand two…_

"…so I found that there are two main problems with current luminol solutions, like, either DNA degraded too fast, or the solution isn't sensitive enough to blood…"

Behind her, Felicity coughed. "Too far. Not counted."

Caitlin wanted to kill her.

How in the world was she supposed to know if her hand was one inch away? That was cutting it too close. Right now, her hand was about a pillow's width away from his posterior, and she kept sneaking glances at it from her peripheral vision to make sure it stayed that way. She was _not_ , in any way, admiring his posterior in the process, and if there was any admiration in her gaze it was admiration at sheer science in how the gluteal muscles made possible the act of walking. They were very well-formed gluteal muscles, firm and perky from regular exercise. —Oh, god, did she just use perky to describe his ass? Oh god. Barry Allen's perky buttocks. Barry Allen's sprightly buttocks. The firmness, admittedly, was something that she could prove only with tactile evidence…

 _No. NO. Christ, Caitlin, go find another more reasonable train of thought!_

What was their agreed-upon distance again? _Yes, that was better._ One inch? How the heck was she supposed to know how long an inch was? Well, alright, she knew the rule of thumb for an inch was, well, approximately half a thumb, but there was no way she could just stick her thumb at his butt, _while he was walking_ , just to measure that damn inch…

"…and then there are problems with the usual photographic techniques, too. I got to talk with the guy from the CCPD's lab and he said there's this whole debate on whether coloured film cameras or digital cameras are better for capturing the luminol-sprayed crime scene…"

…said she, as if precision were the issue. She was very well aware that she was just procrastinating.

 _Mission Status: Stalled Indefinitely_ , she thought, morose. This was a really long hallway, now that she came to think of it. Or maybe Oliver was walking slowly on purpose, at Felicity's , it was way too slow. She should just give up when they reach his doorstep. She didn't care about those stupid points anyway—

And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Barry Allen turn to look at her.

 _FUCK_ _FUCK FUCK MISSION ABORT MISSION ABORT MISSION ABORT!_ Caitlinquickly withdrew her incriminating hand and hid it behind her back, clenching it into a fist. Above the pounding of her pulse in her ears, she heard him say, "…What do you think I should do?"

He was looking at her expectantly, with no hint of the smugness he would have displayed had he caught her hand hovering above his ass. Ah, well, at least she wasn't compromised. But now he wanted her bleeding opinion. _Dammit_. "Er," she said. "How… Er… How many… photographers are needed? I mean, you mentioned photography so I assumed… Well…"

His eyes widened. "Huh, I could actually look into that. There're usually two to three photographers, but maybe there's a way to make the process more efficient…"

He was sort of attractive when he wasn't being all smug and bleeding annoying, Caitlin mused. She cautiously brought her hand up again to the same 45-degree angle she'd maintained previously. Not that she'd admit that to him. And it wasn't like he wasn't attractive when he was being smug, it was just _easier_ to admit it when he wasn't.

Oh, who was she kidding. Science jargon had never been a turn-on for her until today—

She scrunched her nose in disgust at herself. Turn-on? _Really_? What was she, a pubescent girl? She'd already dismissed this whole attraction thing as a ludicrous evolutionary enterprise back in her years in high school, so why was she regressing now? This was very worrying. Her thesis was coming up, and she was hoping to get two internships by the end of this school year, and she couldn't afford any distractions…

Lost in their own musings, neither Caitlin nor Barry noticed that the party going before them had stopped. To be fair, Cisco was still bouncing on his feet, so from their peripheral visions his movement registered as walking… But, in any case, Barry failed to stop walking. Caitlin failed to stop walking, as well, and she had completely forgotten that her hand was still hovering above Barry's buttocks. Barry bumped into Cisco and, with a surprised apology, took a step back—which, of course, brought his posterior smack into Caitlin's waiting hand—and Caitlin, not one with high kinaesthetic intelligence, clenched her fist on reflex, instead of jerking it away first before clenching, which resulted in…

Oh god. She was—

 _She was squeezing Barry Allen's butt cheek._

… _Well, shit._

 _Mission update,_ Caitlin thought faintly, in the eerie calm before the storm, _Tactile evidence has been obtained. The target's buttocks are, indeed, delightfully firm…_

* * *

There was one long, agonising moment of silence before all hell broke lose.

Caitlin immediately dropped her hand following that unfortunate moment of contact, backing away and blushing and stuttering, although she didn't say much except "Sorry sorry sorry"; Felicity's jaw dropped and hung open for a good few seconds before she burst into giggles, and then into a full-bellied laughter that left her gasping for air; and Barry was momentously confused for a few moments, until he was able to discern that the slight pressure on his ass, Caitlin's uncharacteristically flustered and fumbling embarrassment, and Felicity's laughter were all causally linked (or so Caitlin speculated when his confusion cleared and his lips quirked up into that devious smile that was the proverbial nail in her coffin of mortification).

"Did you get to cop a good feel, Caitlin?" he said.

Cisco and Jax, who had been mighty confused about the situation until then, were stunned into silent disbelief after hearing Barry's statement. And then: "What the _hell_? _Who_ felt _what_?"

"I can explain," Caitlin said quickly. "It was—it was an honest accident—"

"She groped my ass," Barry explained conversationally.

"Caitlin's a pervert!" Cisco cried, covering his own butt cheeks with his hands. "Run for your virginity!"

"Huh," Jax said mildly. "Hats off to you, Cait. Didn't think you had it in you."

"It was an _accident_ ," Caitlin stressed, even more heat flooding to her face. "Barry stopped suddenly and—"

"—and your hand just happened to be above my ass?" Barry said, amused. "What was it doing there in the first place?"

By now Felicity was doubling over in laughter. Caitlin wished savagely that she'd have a terrible stomachache afterwards. "It was just a dare, okay, but I was just supposed to hover—"

"Oh, it's one of those weird things you and Felicity do," Cisco said, nodding, his hands still covering his butt. And then he added accusingly, "Hey, I've known you guys for forever and you never told me you were such pervs! I grew up thinking girls had no sex drives!"

"Your ignorance isn't their fault," Oliver said, watching the situation unfold with an amused detachment, one hand on the doorknob of his apartment.

"—I adamantly refused physical contact with your posterior, because it seemed like a breach of consent—"

"If consent was the issue, all you had to do was ask."

For once, Caitlin was at a loss for words. "But—but—"

"Oh, so that's all you can say now?"

" _What_ —I didn't _mean_ butt as in the part of the anatomy—"

"—that you just touched? How was it by the way? Wasn't that your first sexual experience?"

She gaped at him. _The nerve—_ "I think I'll have to wash my hands now," she snapped.

"Before you do, would you be interested in—"

"NO," Caitlin fumed. "Can we just go inside already?"

"Inside where?" Barry teased, but Cisco nudged him and said, "Dude, you don't want to piss her off, she's hella scary when she's mad," and Jax nodded solemnly to second the motion. Caitlin was about to say that she could handle his innuendoes, _thank you very much_ , but she didn't want him to keep going at it, either, so she kept quiet.

Felicity had finally recovered, and she said to Barry sheepishly, still slightly breathless, "Sorry, Barry. It was really all my idea."

He shrugged and grinned. "Nah, it's cool. And anyway, I don't think I'm the person you should be apologising to…"

"Hey, kids," a stern voice came from behind them, and Caitlin beheld the figure of an ageing tenant around five doors down, "I would very much appreciate it if you tone it down, yeah? Someone people want to enjoy their Saturday night in peace."

Caitlin sighed and thought, _Well, you're not the only one…_

"Sorry," Oliver called out, and a few other voices echoed the apology. "We were about to go inside anyway." He gave everyone a pointed look, and, intimidated by it, they all finally meekly shuffled into his apartment.

And first sight that greeted them, to Cisco's endless glee, was a polar bear.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were still standing in front of Oliver's television set, hooked up to a surround sound system and the latest PlayStation. It seemed that Cisco, Jax, and Felicity could go on endlessly about gadgets, and Oliver seemed secretly proud that his pricey technological choices were being lauded by three technophiles. Barry, who seemed like a regular in Oliver's apartment, had slipped away to the kitchen a few minutes ago to get drinks, and Caitlin was seriously contemplating whether she should go after him despite the risk of being alone with him in a separate room, because while she had a passing interest in technology, she was not as versed in its jargon as these four obviously were, and she was feeling a bit left out. It made her extremely uneasy to be out of her depth.

But then it wasn't as if she were well-versed in dealing with Barry Allen, either. She didn't know what to say to him post-dare, especially after seeing how lightly he took it. He was, in a manner of speaking, the victim, and yet he'd managed to turn the tables on her so that _she_ was the one mad at him… She couldn't make sense of her reaction herself.

Well, nothing made sense when Barry Allen was involved, anyway, so she shouldn't be surprised.

Still, why had she been so embarrassed? Why couldn't she laugh it off like the others—like Barry Allen—did? She still got testy and defensive when they alluded to it again or when Cisco jokingly shielded his butt from her whenever she neared him, declaring, "Perv incoming!" (It had happened only twice that night, but Caitlin was already anticipating that it would keep happening.) So it seemed like she was the only one making such a huge deal out of it. She felt that something had changed the moment she accidentally touched his buttocks, but she hadn't realised yet what it was…

She was a hundred percent sure, however, that it _was not_ a fetish for firm gluteal muscles, and knowing what it wasn't made her feel slightly better.

In any case, she couldn't force enlightenment, and she felt very awkward standing quietly in a circle of chatty technophiles, so she muttered that she would help Barry with the drinks and made her way to the kitchen.

She took a moment to admire at the stainless, state-of-the-art equipment Oliver had here. The sleek, modular cooktops, the utensils laid out neatly by size above it, the solid-surface backsplash, the rack of choice herbs and spices… If she'd had this kind of kitchen back when she was cooking all the meals for her mother and herself, she could've seriously considered being a chef.

"I see you're impressed," Barry Allen piped up, grinning at her from the open door of Oliver's fridge. "I think what will impress you more is that Oliver actually knows how to use all this."

"Yeah, I know," she said, hesitating for a brief moment before walking towards him, grabbing one of the beers he'd brought out. "Felicity brings leftovers from her dinners with him sometimes, and I think I understand why she keeps him. His cooking is… a very radical departure from her usual instant-noodle meals."

He laughed. "Felicity's lucky. When Digg and I come over the best we can hope for is leftover pizza. Although Oliver's generous with his drinks, so I'm not complaining…"

It occurred to Caitlin that they were having a normal conversation, i.e. a conversation without any rules or teasing or flirting or hair-pulling, and it was… nice, for a change.

He wordlessly took her bottle of beer from her and popped the cap open, and she thanked him.

Well, come to think of it, this was feeling a bit… awkward, now that she was so conscious of them being normal. God, there was never going to be just a 'normal' around Barry Allen, was there? She sighed, and after taking a swig of beer, she said tentatively, "Look, Barry, I'm really sorry about awhile ago. I didn't mean to assault you."

He snorted at her as he rummaged the cupboard for chips. " _Assault?_ Geez, lighten up. It was an accident—unfortunately, really," he added cheekily, "I get it. I've been through worse in the locker rooms, trust me."

She felt relieved that he had sincerely not taken offence (if their roles had been reversed, she was sure she would have), but she had a lingering feeling that his taking offence wasn't quite the core of the issue. She decided to drop it, though, and instead arched a brow at him. "Men grope each other in the locker room?"

"Not _grope_ ,"he amended. "We just fool around a lot, y'know. Slap each other's butts and jostle around and stuff. Physical contact is practically unavoidable." He glanced at her mildly disgusted expression and laughed. "Guess that'd be a nightmare for you."

"It would be hell," she admitted. "But all your locker room activity still sounds very homoerotic."

"No, it's not. It's very macho."

She gave him a dubious look.

"Well, fine, yeah, I guess, come to think of it," he conceded, rummaging now for bowls. "But I'm straight, alright? I mean, just because I have a sweet and sensitive and caring side…"

She arched her brow higher.

"Hey, why don't you believe me?" he said, laughing. "I'm a pretty great guy, if I say so myself."

"Your self-confidence is astounding," she said dryly. "I believe it borders on delusional."

"Hey, girls like it." He shrugged, giving her another one of those looks she couldn't place. "Usually, anyway. Plus it always helps in delivering jokes. Speaking of! I have another one."

"Oh, god."

"Please? It's a terrible joke. I mean, given that you also make terrible jokes, you should appreciate it."

"Unlike you, I don't subject everyone to my 'jokes' on a regular basis."

"Great! This one will be an instance of irregular basis, then—"

"—it's not irregular if I you make terrible jokes _every time_ we talk—"

"— _every_ time? So you're keeping track? I'm so flattered, Caitlin—"

"—it's not so much keeping track as it is unbidden flashbacks—"

"—okay, so, what did the DNA strand say to the DNA helicase?"

She fell silent. "Oh, god."

He gave her a smug smile. "You're already thinking it, aren't you?"

"Let's bring these snacks to everyone," she said, picking up the bowl and her beer.

"Oh, don't change the subject," he said good-naturedly, picking the other bottles up. "Unless… Can it be? You have no idea what DNA helicase does, do you?"

"I _know_ what DNA helicase does," she retorted.

"Oh, I bet you don't. I bet you're bluffing."

"Am not."

"Are too. What a shame, a biochemistry major with no knowledge of the central dogma—"

" _Bleeding_ _hell_ ," she huffed. "I know the central dogma by heart, but knowing your penchant for the crass misappropriation of scientific concepts, the DNA strand will go something like 'Come and unzip my genes'—"

"—whoa, Caitlin, I didn't know you were so dirty."

"I'm just proving that I know my science!"

"I'm appalled that you're defaming science. I mean, all the DNA strand wanted to say was 'Please break the hydrogen bonds between the bases'…"

She gave him a withering glare, and Barry Allen, damn that bastard, couldn't stop laughing. But eventually, she took to rolling her eyes in fond exasperation, and later on even managed a small smile. She _had_ walked right into that, after all.

* * *

While they had been busy with collecting the snacks, Cisco and Felicity had already decided on a movie. And, predictably, it was an Asian horror movie.

Caitlin sighed. She had no idea why Cisco and Felicity kept going for those, considering that they were the biggest cowards in the world. Every time after watching one at her house back in high school, they would beg to sleep over at her place and huddle in her cramped bed with her (she always ended up taking the couch when they'd fallen asleep), and she had to endure their shaking her awake in the middle of the night to accompany them to the bathroom. It was like babysitting toddlers.

She herself had never seen the appeal of horror movies. She couldn't understand why people paid to get scared out of their wits, and she had always found the eerie background music, the fake blood, the CGI apparitions, and the plot twists terribly contrived… Which, on second thought, might be the reason Cisco and Felicity always insisted on having her around whenever they were in a horror-movie-mood—they needed to assure her that they _really_ weren't going to see ghosts in mirrors.

On that day, however, she was about to find out that Cisco and Felicity weren't the only cowards in the room. As everyone settled in front of the television—Cisco and Jax on the polar bear rug (which Oliver insisted was a gift from one of his father's friends), Felicity and Oliver on the couch, and herself and Barry beside them (she had taken the spot right beside the armrest of the sofa by reflex, as it meant having one less person to sit very closely to)—she noticed that Barry seemed a little agitated.

"It says it's based on a true story," he said, gesturing to the fine print on the cover of the DVD. "What parts of it are true and what aren't? What if it's one of those movies where the ghost haunts whoever's seen it?"

"There are movies like that?" Caitlin said, wrinkling her nose. The horror movie industry sure knew how to capitalise on human fear.

"Yeah! I can't remember the title but shit, I couldn't sleep for days afterwards…"

"But it didn't haunt you, did it," Oliver said, and Caitlin felt an uncharacteristic rush of affection towards him for being the other reasonable person in the room.

"Yeah, dude, you're still alive," Jax added, chewing the chips noisily. Despite the fact that she didn't like it when people talked with their mouths full, Caitlin felt a rush of affection towards him, too.

"But it still could," Barry protested, waving the DVD. "I'm getting chills just thinking about it."

"We should watch that next," Cisco suggested, but just as the opening credits played, the eerie music already had him shutting one of his eyes.

"Oooh, this sounds fun…" Felicity said, burrowing into Oliver's side.

Barry slowly slumped in his seat.

Caitlin rolled her eyes. Fun, indeed.

* * *

Unbeknownst to her, however, the horror movie would be as much an ordeal for her as it was for Cisco, Felicity, and Barry.

It wasn't the horror movie itself—the movie was, as she had anticipated, a highly predictable and highly contrived story about how the protagonists find out why they were being haunted, while being killed off one by one. Rather, it was how Barry was reacting to the scenes that made the entire experience uncomfortable.

It started out very innocently. Even if they were indeed seated beside each other, Oliver's sofa was spacious enough that there was reasonable space between them. But, as the protagonists started seeing snatches of the ghost in mirrors and photographs, she noticed that Barry was slowly curling his body away from the screen and towards her. She could hardly care to follow the plot in the first place, but as his head was dangerously coming close to rest on her shoulder, she stopped caring about the story altogether and instead became intensely focused on the progress of his movement. She became conscious of the heat from his body, of how his hands jerked up every now and then to shield his eyes, of how he allowed himself to peek through his fingers anyway, of how his hands clenched when the music staccatoed in suspense, of how he let out a string of curses right after a particularly rattling scene…

And then, when the first front-view appearance of the ghost coincided with frightening swells of music, Barry Allen (along with Cisco, somewhere in the background) yelled a curse, and grabbed her hand.

Caitlin froze. For a very long moment, all she could focus on was the clammy warmth of his hand, of its weight on hers, of his calloused fingers slowly curling over the edge of her palm… and, unbidden, her traitorous pulse quickened. Barry seemed completely oblivious to his action, even as he tightened his grip when the disfigured face of the ghost hissed and bared bloody teeth, and he looked so terrified that she didn't have the heart to tell him to let go.

His grip eventually slackened when the ghost disappeared, but she still felt her skin tingling from his touch. He would accidentally touch her now and again throughout the movie, and every time she felt her senses sharpening and zeroing in on every twitch of his muscle, on every brush of cloth on cloth or skin on skin, but he never did grab onto her hand again. And, to her profound confusion, by the time the movie ended, she was feeling a little disappointed that he _hadn't_.

As she watched him excuse himself to go to the bathroom (with Jax accompanying him, because Cisco declared that he would avoid reflective surfaces for the rest of his life), her peripheral gaze inadvertently landed on his posterior, covered now by his rumpled, half-untucked polo. It was then that she came to realise, with a mixture of horror and anxiety, the source of her frustration following the dare, and the source of her disappointment following his unintentional holding of her hand:

She wasn't actually averse to touch anymore.

Or, at least, the knee-jerk repulsion that she usually felt was conspicuously absent. Obviously she still felt some mild discomfort, and she wasn't just going to magically become a touchy person… But this was a very puzzling development for her.

And this puzzling development had all been precipitated, somehow, by Barry Allen.

 _Oh, god,_ she thought, with a vague apprehension tightening her chest, _What the hell is happening to me?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes:** Thank you once again for all your reviews. Reading them really encourages me to keep writing. Shoutout to the Guest who left a review here and on Tumblr—that was incredibly sweet, and your messages made my day too. And I'm also dedicating this chapter to the anon on Tumblr whose car got stolen—I can't do much about stolen cars but I do hope this'll lift your mood. :(

Well, this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, because it was supposed to be part of the previous one until it got out of hand. It's a bit more serious but I hope you'll like it.

* * *

"Are you alright? You look a little ill."

"Me? Nah, I'm fine."

Caitlin arched an eyebrow at him. After the horror movie, the four of them opted to go back to the dorms to give Felicity and Oliver some alone time ("I'll just stay to help him reformat his hard drive," Felicity had said, to which Jax had commented, "So that's what you two call it, huh?" which earned him an indignant glare and a slap on the arm), and right after Jax and Cisco had parked their bikes in front of the guys' dorms, they made some lame excuse about having to go ahead, while giving Caitlin exaggerated winks and thumbs-ups. Barry Allen, as they had probably expected, promptly offered to escort her back to the girls' dorms.

"You're still scared, aren't you?"

"Nah, I'm not."

He was obviously faking it. "At this rate, I don't think I'm the one who needs escorting," she told him dryly. "I'll be fine."

"What? No, I'm cool—"

"—wait, what was that?"

"Shit, what was what?" He took a step closer to her and dug his hands deeper into his pockets while taking quick, furtive glances at the surrounding landscape. "What was _what_?"

"I think I heard something…"

Now he instinctively placed a hand on her forearm and gave her a grave look that she had never seen on him before. _Interesting._ "Caitlin, stop, this isn't funny."

"Oh, but it is," she said, smirking. "This is very amusing."

"Hey, don't be amused without me," he said, attempting to be light, but his body language clearly conveyed that he was still on his guard. And his hand was still on her forearm. He was still touching her. Once again her knee-jerk repulsion to it was acutely absent, but her previous anxiety regarding her earlier realisation was absent as well. In fact, the only interior monologue in her mind, so insistent it was like white noise, was _he's touching me he's touching me he's touching me_ … His touch had enough force to silence any other thought, directing her attention instead on the contact of skin on skin.

"Well," she sniffed, taking more effort than usual to string words together, "now you know how I feel when you make innuendoes."

"Touché." His hand was warm on her forearm. Bleeding hell, even if she wasn't looking at it, and even if she tried her best to ignore it, she couldn't escape the fact that it was just _there._ "But seriously, you didn't _really_ hear anything, did you?"

" _But seriously_ ," she said, mimicking his tone, "I think you should just stay. Your attempt at chivalry is duly noted."

"Look, it goes against my good breeding to _not"_ —his fingers pressed lightly on her skin when he emphasised the word—"accompany you," he insisted. He continued, gesturing wildly with the other hand, "I mean, it's a _Saturday_ night, and people are getting drunk and high, and it's nearly midnight—"

"I don't need a lecture on the bad habits of college students, _Dad_ ," she said. "And it obviously goes against your instinct to walk around in the middle of the night. I have a pepper spray, too, which will be more useful than you at this moment, since you seem ready to bolt at the slightest sound."

"Ouch," he said, with no real hurt in his voice. "Well, fine, it _is_ against my instinct, but mind over matter, right? I mean, ghosts don't really exist, do they?" At the end of every question, he tightened his hold on her imperceptibly. "Hey, you weren't scared at all during that movie, so that means you don't believe in ghosts, so they aren't real, right?"

She shrugged. Her arm, throughout this whole conversation, had remained immobile while his hand was on it. "I don't believe in them, but whether or not you believe in something doesn't say anything about the fact of its existence. I would allow for the possibility that science can't explain all phenomena."

"…That's not helping," he said. His thumb curved upwards, as if tracing a half-moon on her skin—

"Barry," she said, finally unable to bear this hyper-vigilance. She lifted her arm ever-so-slightly. "You're touching me."

"What…? Oh—oh, sorry!" He promptly dropped his hand and gave her a sheepish smile. "I didn't even notice—wait, how long was I holding onto you?"

"For… awhile."

His eyes widened. "And you let me touch you for… _awhile_?"

"It seemed like you needed the comfort."

He grinned. "I think I need more comfort. Can I have a hug?"

"Don't push it."

"Aw, c'mon, considering that you've already felt me up—"

"That was an _accident._ "

"How about an accidental hug? I'll pretend to bump into you and just casually fling my arm around your shoulder—"

"The fact that you have to deliberately _pretend_ to," she emphasised, "makes it _non-accidental_. Besides, I made one accidental touch and you made one accidental touch, so we're even."

" _Even_?" he said incredulously. "The only way it'll be even is if I also—"

"—don't you _dare_ continue that or I will _maim_ you."

"…how badly?"

She rolled her eyes at his cheeky smile, and turned to the direction of the girls' dorms. "Good night, Barry."

"Hey," he said, and from her peripheral vision she saw him take a quick glance back at the dorm before striding towards her. "Hey, wait up, I'm still walking with you!"

* * *

"So, tell me more about Ronnie."

Caitlin gave him a sidelong glance. He had just been yammering on about paranormal experiences, and now he was asking about _Ronnie_ , of all things? "Why?"

He shrugged. "Just curious about the kind of guy who'd ask you out."

It was quite out of the blue, but Caitlin didn't think much of it at the time. It wasn't unusual for Barry Allen to quickly shift gears in a conversation, after all, and besides, she'd gotten used to it over the course of their dinner. Sometimes, he hadn't even finished pursuing a certain question before he'd ask yet another one, without remembering to return to his original question. It was like talking to Cisco, only Barry Allen seemed a little more… intentional in his questioning, like he wanted to ask what came to mind before he forgot it.

In any case, she wasn't even going to try to comprehend the set of associations his mind had navigated to arrive at this topic. "I already told you," she said, deciding to just go along with it, "he's smart and pleasant. He likes pizza. He's in Keystone City now, if I'm not mistaken."

"You guys still talk?"

"Occasionally. He chats with me from time to time."

"And… you never liked him?"

"No," she said. "He's objectively good-looking, I suppose, but no."

"Really?" Barry looked incredulous. "He was smart _and_ good-looking _and_ he was into you and you _never_ liked him? Ever?"

"No." Feeling mildly annoyed by his insistence at this line of questioning, she added tersely, "What, does every smart, good-looking, and interested male deserve to have their affections reciprocated?"

She glanced at him again, and she saw something shift in his expression—it looked like a pensive frown, but since the street lamps casted strange shadows on his face, she couldn't be sure. She didn't know what to make of it.

"Hey, that's not what I meant," he said, before looking away and adding, "But, yeah, I guess not."

An uncanny silence followed.

Having gotten so used to his effusive chattiness, and having fallen into the habit of getting him to shut up, Caitlin realised that she didn't know what to say to him now that _he_ was the one being quiet. She worried her bottom lip as the silence stretched, going through an internal monologue of panic—panic for what, she wasn't sure—before her rational mind took over, and a few moments later she found herself saying, "So, what was your favourite date?"

He blinked at her, looking as surprised at her asking a question as she was. "My favourite date?"

"I told you about Ronnie. I think it's only fair that I ask you about yours."

"Hm, let's see," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It would have to be… our next one."

He gave her a cheeky grin.

Caitlin scowled at him, even as her pulse quickened. _Stupid, stupid pretty smile._

"My question was in the past tense."

"Then it'd be our date earlier."

Her first thought to that was, _Could he be telling the truth?_ but it was quickly dovetailed by _That was bullshit_ _,_ and the strength of the longing that came with the first was matched by the vehemence of the second, resulting in such confusion in her that she had no other recourse but to narrow her eyes dangerously at him.

He seemed to sense the hostility radiating off her. "Alright, alright," he said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Let me think… Ah, here. It's not exactly my favourite, but it was one of my most memorable ones."

His use of the plural made her acutely aware of the fact that he was quite experienced at this, and that knowledge made her feel suddenly smaller. But externally, her face was a blank mask. "Go on."

"Okay, so, I was a high school freshman, and I was just starting out in the track team," he said. "Believe it or not, I wasn't as cool as I am now."

She rolled her eyes. "You do know that by calling yourself cool, you're no longer 'cool.'"

"…Hey."

"Felicity and I call it the paradox of cool. We call Cisco out for it all the time."

"Fine. I wasn't the hot stuff I am now. Happy?"

"Can we just move on with your story?"

"No, wait, I want to know what sort of self-description you'd approve of. I wasn't the… hunk I am now?"

"How about you weren't as annoying then as you are now?"

"I wasn't the stud I am now?"

She gave him a withering look.

"Oh, come on," he pressed. "Don't I have any appealing physical qualities?"

"You certainly never needed me to affirm them."

"So I _do_ have appealing physical qualities?"

She threw up her hands. "…Yes, objectively speaking—"

"Wha—did you just say _yes_?"

"— _objectively speaking_ , your facial structure is very symmetrical—"

"—I can't believe you just admitted that I'm good-looking—"

"—I didn't _say_ that, all I said was that your face is _symmetrical_ —"

"—would you like to examine what other parts of me are symmetrical—"

She groaned. "You. Are. Insufferable."

"No. I'm. Symmetrical." He smirked. "Which is probably your code for 'bleeding hot as hell'—"

"— _anyway_ ," she gritted out, "your memorable date?"

"Fine, fine." He looked amused, as he shoved his hands back into his pockets. "So. I wasn't as… _symmetrical_ as I am now. I was like, well, the skinny, geeky outcast in the track team. I've never been on a date before, and the only girl who'd approach me then was Iris, who's practically my sister, so you can just imagine how bad I felt when I heard my teammates talk about the girls they went out with or kissed or made out with—hey, don't judge me."

"What? I'm not judging you."

"Yes, you are. You're giving me your judging face."

"This is my _normal face._ "

"Okay, fine, fine. But just saying. Wanting to date is normal. Now where was I…? Ah, yeah, so in one of the parties that one of the seniors threw, I decided I'd approach this cute girl I'd been crushing on then—her name was Kara—once her friends left her alone."

Caitlin was already filing the name away in her mind under the file 'to look up later on', and she wondered vaguely if Barry had a type. _Just out of curiosity_ , she assured herself, _this could be an investigation into patterns of attraction…_

"So, I did, after a couple more shots," Barry continued, oblivious to her stalker-like musings, "and after we talked a bit she was like, 'This party kinda sucks, do you wanna go somewhere else?' And she started stammering that she didn't mean it in _that way_ , but I didn't think of it _that_ way anyway. I mean, all that mattered was that she was talking to me,and I was just freaking out outside I had to keep my cool, so I was all, 'Yeah, sure, why not?' So we went to a cafe and just… talked, for a really long time. Until the owner drove us away so he could close shop."

When it became clear that that was the end of his story, Caitlin scrunched her brow in confusion. It had been… anticlimactic, to say the least. "That was your most memorable date? It doesn't even sound like you asked her out in the first place."

"Yeah, well, we later agreed it was our first date," he said, shrugging. "I mean, we realised we were better off as friends by the third one, but I still had a great time with her. It was just really spontaneous, and I didn't feel like I needed to impress her. I know, I know, my impressiveness may come off as natural, but I do put in _some_ effort…"

She arched a brow at him and ignored his bluff. "So aside from Kara, you've always been trying to impress girls."

"Well, yeah." He shifted. "I mean, at first, I was really trying. But after awhile it became easier to do the things I did or said around girls I wanted to impress. Wait, that sounded wrong—I mean, it's not like I don't mean what I tell them, it's just, I get better at figuring out what makes them smile or laugh. Like, girls seem to like it when I talk about science. Most of them don't really understand what I'm talking about, and they only half-get the jokes, but I guess they find geeky sort of hot on me." He looked almost pensive when he said this. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't like science just because it helps me get girls. It's more like, I let that part of me stand out more. But after awhile it starts feeling like… an act, somehow. And back with Kara, before I figured all _this_ out, it didn't feel like an act."

Caitlin was silently observing him, and she found this new aspect that he was revealing to her both intriguing and frightening. There was something almost mechanistic in his approach to girls, similar to how she supposed she sounded when she was fitting social interactions into a scientific framework, and it was all the more intriguing because she would have never guessed it from his playful demeanour. But then again, she had already discerned that part of his ability to be friendly with all sorts of people came from good observational skills of their thinking and behavioural patterns, and from being able to copy them well. A social chameleon, as she had previously pegged him as. She just didn't expect him to be so aware as well of how he was doing what he did, and it frightened her to think that he could perhaps be reading her better than he let on.

Presently, he blinked and gave her a sidelong glance. "Wow, I can't believe I just told you all that," he muttered. "It's not like it'll work on you, anyway. You're already pointing out the flaws in my science jokes."

 _It's not like it'll work on you, anyway—_ did that mean that he was trying to impress her? Was he getting her to like him? She bit her lip. No, surely it wasn't that… Surely he was just trying to point out that it would never work on her had he really tried. It's not like he was currently trying to do so. Yes, that must be it. But perhaps she should clarify just to make sure—no, she shouldn't let on that she had actually been considering that he was thinking of impressing her—that would reveal too much about her own intentions, too, even if she was deliberately keeping her own intentions murky to herself…

And she couldn't tell whether or not she wanted to be the object of his… tactics, or whatever they were. On one hand, that would mean that she was also the object of his attraction. But that also meant that she was would just be like all those other faceless girls he'd tried to impress, and for some reason that did not sit well with her. _But_ he had just said that he hadn't used those tactics on her, and he'd clearly set her apart from that faceless mass by stating that what he usually did to those girls won't work on her anyway. But then again, that didn't mean that she could draw the conclusion that he was attracted to her. There was some logical gap in her reasoning here, and she couldn't seem to figure it out—

"You don't think I'm a douche, do you?" he said again, and she realised that she hadn't said anything yet in reply to what he'd disclosed to her. She glanced at his face, and he was looking at her apprehensively.

She bit her lip again, and after a brief pause, she said, "Maybe a bit. I think all of us, to some extent, put on an act before other people."

"Even you?" he said, with a faint smile.

She looked him in the eye even as her pulse thrummed at the sight of that smile. It wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was sadder, more vulnerable, like he'd stripped off his easy-going, geeky guy act, even if it was for just a moment.

"Yes," she conceded, looking away. "Even me."

* * *

"The sky's not so cloudy tonight, huh?" he said, as they were approaching the driveway that led to the girls' dormitory. His head was tilted to the sky, and Caitlin, obliging him, looked up as well.

"I hadn't noticed it was cloudy last night," she said. "But there does seem to be more stars than usual. Like during midsummer nights."

"Yeah." He squinted at the sky. "Know any constellations?"

"No, not really."

"Really?" He grinned at her before looking back up at the sky. "Finally, something I know that you don't."

She rolled her eyes. "Gloating isn't becoming on you."

But he was already completely absorbed again in scrutinising the sky. The look on his face reminded her of when he had been talking about his thesis earlier in the evening, and she willed herself not to cringe at the memory of what came out of his intense concentration and her careless distraction. "There's Lyra," he said, lifting his hand to point at a general section of sky, before drawing invisible lines that connected a cluster of stars.

Caitlin couldn't make out which cluster stars, however, and anyway none of those clusters of stars looked like they formed a harp. "You could refer to just about any group of stars and I wouldn't be able to verify if you're telling the truth," she said.

"True," he said, giving her an impish smile. "Guess you'd just have to trust me, then. I've been stargazing with my Dad since I was ten years old, so I've got plenty experience. May I?"

He gestured to her hand, and she looked at him blankly. "May you what?"

"I'll help you trace Lyra," he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Watching you trace it again will suffice."

"Dammit," he said good-naturedly. "Fine, fine. Here." He sidled closer to her side so that his shoulder was nearly touching hers. She didn't flinch, but again, she couldn't help but be aware of his every movement. "See that really bright bluish star? That's Vega. It's the brightest one in Lyra—one of the brightest stars we can see, actually—so that's how I'm usually able to tell that Lyra's in the sky." He lifted his arm and started tracing an inverted triangle, and then a parallelogram below the triangle. "The other stars aren't so visible, so I'm just guessing the outline. But yeah, that's Lyra. Cool, huh?"

Caitlin wasn't exactly able to follow the pattern he traced, but she still had half her mind about her to not take up his previous offer to 'help her trace it.' She unconsciously pinned her arms to her side. "Lyra was the lyre of Orpheus, right?"

Barry Allen hummed in agreement, and put his hands back into his pockets. "It played such beautiful music it could charm anything and drown out the voices of the Sirens." He glanced at her. "Ever heard the story of Vega?"

"No… Was there a Vega in Greek mythology?"

"Asian mythology, actually," he said. "The Weaver Girl and the Cowherd. Ring a bell?"

"No," she said reluctantly.

He cleared his throat, and she promptly rolled her eyes at his theatrics and faux-solemn air. "Once upon a time…" he began, and he proceeded to tell the story of how Vega, the Weaver Girl, and the star Altair, the Cowherd, were lovers, and how the Weaver Girl's father didn't approve of their relationship, so he decided to separate them by condemning them to live on the opposite sides of the Silver River (the Milky Way). They were, however, allowed to reunite once a year. On the seventh day of the seventh month, they crossed a bridge of magpies over the Silver River to meet each other. The Cowherd didn't always make it, though, and when he didn't Vega would shed tears that would become rain on earth.

After he told the story, he glanced at her and said, "Romantic, huh?"

She scrunched her brow. "Romantic? It sounds more like tragic to me."

He was still looking at her. "Yeah, but imagine the kind of love that'll bear with the agony of that wait, but will keep hoping anyway," he said.

He sounded half-joking and half-serious, and as usual she didn't know what to make of these expressions of his. And what was he trying to convey? Was he somehow hinting that she was Vega and that he was Altair, and that they would have some kind of doomed romance? Or was he implying that he was willing to wait, whatever that meant?

 _Or_ was he really just telling a story?

Besides, did everything have to _mean_ something?

Caitlin briefly closed her eyes and resisted the urge to rub her temples. "Well, we're here," she said, gesturing to her dorm. In fact, they'd been standing there for around ten minutes already, and she felt a bit silly for pointing out the obvious, but she felt like she needed to end this conversation. It was skirting too close to unfamiliar territory, and she had no idea what to make of anything yet. "Thank you for accompanying me."

He shrugged, and with it the atmosphere between them seemed to lighten again. "Hey, no problem. Tonight was fun, wasn't it?"

"Sure," she said half-heartedly, because she wouldn't classify uneasy revelations as fun, but she wasn't about to let him in on that, either. "Will you be okay walking back?"

"Yeah," he said, looking confident and nonchalant again. "No big deal. Ghosts don't exist. But… Well, just in case," he rubbed the nape of his neck sheepishly, "would you mind talking to me on the phone on my way back? I mean, you know, in case of supernatural kidnappings or such…"

Her lips quirked up in amusement. "Well," she said, "I think that can be arranged."

* * *

Caitlin hadn't even reached her floor yet when he called, and as she made her up another two flights of stairs to her room and settled on her bed, she listened to him chatter about his meet on Monday, and his roommate, Iris's younger brother Wally. She hardly got a word in edgewise—even when he apologised for talking too much, he couldn't stop talking anyway—but she felt strangely content to listen to him ramble on. When he'd announced that he'd reached his room and she heard the metallic sound of a key sliding into the keyhole of the doorknob, she bade him goodbye, but then he started the whole "No, _you_ hang up first" gimmick just to annoy her, so she promptly did hang up first.

She then lay her phone face-down on her bedside table, folded her hands on top of her stomach, and stared blankly at the dark ceiling of her room. Her mind drifted to the memory of Barry tracing the outline of Lyra, the harp whose beautiful, clear music drowned out the voices of Sirens, and she absentmindedly lifted her own hand to the ceiling to trace an inverted triangle, starting from Vega the Weaver Girl down to the small, faint star at the foot of the harp's body. She thought of the Weaver Girl and the Cowherd, of the kind of love that mostly consisted of—as Barry Allen had so eloquently put it—the agony of waiting. She thought about all these things, and as she did, a realisation alighted on her consciousness, as softly and lightly as a feather, so much so that she didn't even think to resist it.

 _I like Barry Allen_.

For the next few seconds, she had remained uncharacteristically calm, still feeling like a detached observer to this thought. _I_ like _Barry Allen._ Perhaps the calmness came with the fact that this thought was not exactly new—it felt like something she had known all along, like knowing that the sun was a star but never really thinking of it as a star.

She spent a few more moments in quiet contemplation before it. Then she turned the words over and over again in her mind, and as she did so they began snowballing down the slopes of her consciousness until they lodged themselves firmly her heart.

 _I like_ Barry Allen _,_ she thought again. I _like Barry Allen…_

Well, now. She supposed that she had gone and developed that silly crush on Barry Allen, after all.

She was so screwed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes:** Oh my god, it's been awhile, so sorry. Life's been really hectic, but thank god board exams are out of the way, so I'm back! Thank you again for your reviews!

* * *

Caitlin did not panic right away.

It seemed like her rational mind had been blanketed in fog, so that she began indulging in daydreams that she had long suppressed. They were not particularly lengthy or detailed—her inexperience with romance and her long-standing disdain for it precluded the possibility of detailed plots—but they were still very vivid images of Barry Allen: his green eyes, his smile, the lilt in his voice when he teased her. The way he laughed, the chiseled outline of his muscles under his track suit, the way his fingers curled into the palm of her hand. The way his smile turned sad when he was serious, the shape of his lips when he pronounced the names of stars.

And then, slowly, the images ceased to come from her memories—they started coming from a future she wanted to see. A successful lab experiment on biomolecules with a lot of bad science jokes on the side. Learning more names of stars, learning their alliances in constellations. Taking the train with him to STAR Labs, standing close enough to him to hear him breathe. And, perhaps after a date forced to end by a grouchy owner closing shop, a kiss under the night sky, in early autumn air…

Caitlin bolted up from her bed so fast that her head spun, and the sudden rush of blood to her head finally dispelled the haze in her mind. _What in hell am I thinking?_ she chided herself, burying her face in her hands. _Oh my god oh my god oh my god what if he doesn't like_ _me back? What if he gets back with Linda? What if—_

 _NO, STOP. Do not panic._ Caitlin sat up straighter and took three deep, calming breaths.

She didn't need to give in to those thoughts. She needed to take control of the situation as soon as possible, and the first thing she needed to figure out was possible action points. Yes, she could do that.

She took another deep breath and gathered her stray hairs into a tight bun, grabbed a piece of bond paper from her organiser, and settled on her desk. She'd always done this for crucial decision points, and even if her current situation was unprecedented, she figured that there was nothing that a good old-fashioned cost-benefit analysis couldn't solve.

She folded her paper into three, and then wrote the title and a date at the centre. Afterwards, she labelled the first column as 'Action Point', under which she filled out the following:

 **A rudimentary cost-benefit analysis of the current predicament  
** (Costs and benefits not necessarily quantifiable)

 **Action Points:**

(1) Forever hold my silence.  
(2) Confess to him myself.  
(3) Consult with friends.

 **Possible Outcomes:**

 ** _Outcome 1_ :** He does not reciprocate my sentiments. Probability: 97%—see Outcome 2 for breakdown

 ** _Outcome 2_ :** He reciprocates my sentiments. Probability: 3%, a generous estimate based on:

a) the jacket incident,  
b) an over-reading of "pseudo-flirtatious" "banter", and  
c) an over-reading of the Weaver Girl/Cowherd story

After that, she proceeded to fill out the corresponding costs and benefits for each Action Point. She had to redo the list a few times before she finally came up with something satisfactory, and when she did, she paused to reassess what she'd written.

To be honest, Option (1) appealed to her the most, because it seemed like the only option that would preserve her pride and dignity. It didn't require her to make herself vulnerable to anyone. But Caitlin also did not like _not_ taking action. Sure, holding one's silence could be construed as a sort of action, but it was _passive_ action, which meant she would be suspended in a state of forever torturing herself over possibilities. There would be no closure—unless he confessed to her first, but again that relegated her to the passive role of waiting—and she didn't like that. Passiveness led to restlessness, and restlessness meant diffuse concentration, which then led to poor performance in other areas of her life, which led to a dip in GPA and subsequent joblessness.

Thus, (1) was probably not the best course of action.

She hated (2), because of course it would entail opening herself up to humiliation and rejection, and she hated feeling inadequate. Her whole life had been geared towards working hard to prove how intelligent and capable she was, and rejection in whatever form, like an A-minus or a stutter in an otherwise good interview, always threw her off. Even if Barry Allen's rejection of her might not have anything to do with her intelligence, she knew she would see it as "not being good enough" for the likes of him. Of course, there was the possibility that he'd reciprocate, but obviously the possibility of rejection loomed larger in her mind than the possibility that he'd reciprocate, indicated by her (admittedly dubious) probability estimates.

So she was definitely not going to do (2). The emotional costs far outweighed the benefit of that elusive "closure" of knowing how he truly feels about her.

She hated to admit it, but (3) looked like the most appealing option. Caitlin disliked being wrong, and admitting she liked Barry Allen would be to prove her friends right and herself wrong, _but_ then again, it would cost her only some discomfort and mild annoyance at most. Usually, one factored in the possibility that said friends would tell on her, but she knew that neither Felicity nor Cisco—or Jax, since he'd been dragged into all this—would ever do that. At most, they would be terribly unsubtle, but then they already _were_ , so there wasn't any difference there. Besides, if she wanted to know how he felt about her—which had been the foremost benefit of Option (2)—what better way to find out than through her friends? If he didn't like her, there would be a minimum loss of face, and if he did, she had them to help her plan her next move.

Caitlin encircled Option (3) on her list and nodded grimly.

Now she just had to gather the guts to tell them.

* * *

"Cait."

Something was prodding her. Caitlin groaned and shifted, her hand reflexively swatting at the annoying thing on her side.

" _Cait_." The poking was more insistent now. " _Cait Cait Cait_ please give some indication that you are alive and/or conscious—"

Caitlin gave up. She slowly cracked her eyes open. "Felicity? What are you…"

"Hallelujah!" Felicity cheered, before her brow scrunched in concern. "Hey, are you okay?" She stooped down to bring her face right in front of hers. "You fell asleep on your desk. In last night's clothes. _And_ there was this high-res picture of the extraction of a roundworm from an eye on your laptop screen, which is _so_ not conducive for breakfast, no thanks to your mother, but I know you only look at those when you really _really_ need a distraction. So. Are you okay?"

"I… fell asleep on my desk?" It was the only part of Felicity's ramble that Caitlin was able to comprehend. She groggily tried to lift her head. "Ow. That explains the crick in my neck."

"Hm," Felicity said noncommittally. "I guess that would also explain _this_ , wouldn't it?"

Caitlin saw the crumpled piece of paper dangling from Felicity's fingers. She squinted at it, because it looked suspiciously like—she shot up from her seat. It looked _very much_ like her first and most awful cost-benefit analysis draft. "Oh my god, you _did not_ —"

"' _Action Point 2: Confess to him myself_ ,'" Felicity read, and Caitlin, having only just woken up, was too slow to react.

"F-Felicity! Come back here!" She stumbled as she got up from her desk and glared at her best friend, who was now standing on top of her bed, grinning. "Felicity, I _swear_ —"

"' _Outcome 2: He reciprocates my sentiments. Benefits_ '"—Felicity squealed when Caitlin managed to tackle her down on the bed, but she held the paper far enough above her head that Caitlin still struggled to reach it. "' _Benefits: 1) Occasionally, perhaps 0.3% of the time, he_ _does_ _make_ "—apparently Felicity's hanging out with Oliver had somehow gifted her with athletic abilities, because her friend was dodging her swipes surprisingly well—" _make… commendable jokes. 2) Increased time_ "—another series of successful dodges—" _staring at his eyes. His eyes are rather—rather nice to stare int—AT. 3) He looks quite fetching in starlight_ '—"

Caitlin, blushing furiously now, finally managed to snatch the paper from Felicity, before the abrupt movement sent them both over the edge of the bed and onto the floor.

They groaned in unison, sat up, rubbed their respective sore body parts, caught each other's eye at the same time… and promptly burst into laughter.

When their laughter finally tapered off into giggles, Caitlin managed a glare at her friend. It held no real venom, though—she had done the same to Felicity back when she'd been mooning over Oliver. Only, of course, it was an Excel file, not a piece of paper. "Seriously," Caitlin said, " _why_ are you so annoying?"

Felicity flopped onto her stomach and grinned. "God made me this way to torment you."

Caitlin sighed. "God, I never asked for this. Please take her back. Just don't put her in your choir— _ow!"_

" _You're_ one to talk," Felicity sniffed. "And please, without me you'll just lead a sad, sad life, with no one to understand your compulsive need to colour-code our stash of instant noodles."

"Tragic, really."

"Don't I know it. Now, care to tell me why you fell asleep in a pile of rubbish?" Felicity smiled slyly. "Or we can just talk about how _fetching_ Barry Allen looks in _starlight_ —"

"God. _Stop_."

"You used _fetching_ , Cait. _Fetching_. I will forever hold that against you."

Caitlin wrinkled her nose decided not to dignify that with an answer. Instead she took a deep breath and muttered, "Felicity. I think I like Barry Allen."

She exhaled. Her statement suddenly felt ten times more real, now that she'd told someone else.

Felicity gaped at her.

And then, "Motherfracker."

She gave her friend a sidelong glance. "I'm not saying it again. And please don't gloat. It's really too early in the morning for me to deal with strenuous physical activity and your annoyingness at the same time."

"Silly. I wasn't going to gloat." Felicity propped herself up on her elbows. "Wait, no, maybe I will. A little. Okay, a lot. But _after_ we talk. I mean, I'm happy it didn't take you a gazillion years to admit it, but then again there's the fact that you've only known him for a week…"

"I know, I know," Caitlin sighed, feeling oddly resigned. "I suppose the only logical explanation at this point is sorcery."

"No, the logical explanation is that he's cute and he's nice and he talks to you. Ergo, you like him. Congratulations, you're human like the rest of us." Felicity scooted closer to her friend. "Well, so are you going to tell me about this whole 'fetching' business or what?"

* * *

"Dude, it's the end of the world."

"Don't be so melodramatic, man," Jax said, after he'd managed to close his mouth. "I mean, yeah, it's pretty surprising, but I guess Cait's still a girl. With like, girl hormones."

"But Cait's survived without them for seven years—"

" _Cait_ ," Caitlin said irritably, "is _right here_ , thank you very much."

Cisco threw up his hands. "Fine, fine. I give you my blessing. Just, he better not break your heart, or else I'll—uh, I'll delete his progress on all his video games." He nodded decisively. "I swear it on the Crash Bandicoot remake."

Caitlin felt oddly touched. "Thanks. But you do realise that I'm not… well… we're not…"

"Together," Felicity supplied supportively.

"Right." Caitlin shifted uncomfortably and glared at her friend. After discussing her "predicament"with Felicity that morning, she'd encouraged her to tell Cisco and Jax, too, because they knew Barry better—that, and having a Y chromosome supposedly made them more knowledgeable about the workings of the male mind.

Well, knowledgeable or not, at least they'd been satisfied with her two-sentence summary of her walk with Barry Allen the night before, as opposed to the two hours she'd spent with Felicity on it, dissecting every possible subtext to his words. Caitlin didn't think she could handle _that_ sort of intensity again.

"Anyway, Cait needs our help," Felicity said. She folded her hands together and took a sip of her milkshake. "She doesn't want to prolong her agony, so she wants to find out ASAP what Barry thinks of her. If he doesn't like her, then she thinks she should just avoid him for the rest of the sem. If he does, well…"

"Wait, wait," Jax interjected, putting his burger down. "You're saying that we're doing the spying, and you'll just… wait for the intel?"

Caitlin and Felicity glanced at each other.

"I won't just be _waiting_ ," Caitlin clarified. "I'll be… well, _strategising_ …"

"No way. I mean, sure, I'd spy for you." He took a sip of his drink. "But you gotta do your part too."

"I can't just _ask_ him if he likes me. That would defeat the entire purpose of asking _you_ to ask him."

"Who said anything about asking him straight up?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

Felicity and Cisco turned to him, looking equally lost. "Yeah, what're you getting at, man?"

"I'm saying," Jax said patiently, "that if you want to find out if the guy likes you, you gotta be subtle. You gotta be sneaky. You gotta _seduce_ it outta him."

"… _WHAT?!"_

Cisco choked on a french fry. " _Dude._ Cait seducing someone is like watching turtles have sex! No offence to turtles."

" _Thank you_ for your support," Caitlin said, glaring at him half-heartedly. "He has a point though. I really don't think that's feasible…"

"No, I'm serious. Hear me out, Cait," Jax said. He leaned his elbows on the table. "Alright, so here's the stitch. I can usually tell when a guy's into someone, yeah? And I'm getting the feeling that Barry's into you, but he hasn't thought about being serious about it. In my humble opinion, Barry hasn't really thought about it yet because, well, no offence, Cait, but you're pretty intimidating."

"Cait's not intimidating," Cisco said. "She's just, you know, kinda serious and intense and uptight sometimes…"

Caitlin gasped. " _Uptight_?"

"Lisa's words, not mine," Cisco said quickly. "She calls you my, uh, 'uptight friend'…"

"There we go," Jax said. "So, if I were in Barry's shoes and I think I kinda like this cute chick—woman, sorry—but I see that the cute chi— _woman_ is this intense and uptight and really fucking smart workaholic who's already got one foot into grad school and profs lining up to take her as their research assistant, what do I do?"

"Any dude with a sense of self-preservation would flee," Cisco supplied, slurping his drink, as if for emphasis.

"Bingo. I'd back the hell off because she's not gonna see me as a priority. And we're not masochists. If a dude sees he doesn't stand a chance against M.I.T. or STAR Labs, he'd just save himself the pain of getting rejected and not try at all."

"Hmmm," Felicity mused. "So you're saying that Cait has to give Barry a little nudge."

"Yeah," Jax shrugged, finally polishing off his burger. "And from there, just go with the flow. From how I see it, you won't need us spying, because I feel Barry's going to rise to the bait."

"That's very nice and all," Caitlin deadpanned, "but you're leaving out the part where _I don't know how, and will_ never _learn how, to 'seduce' or 'flirt' or use any sort of feminine wiles for_ any _purpose._ "

"That's not a problem," Jax said dismissively. "Hey, if I can learn shit like cis-trans isomerism, you can learn seduction." He grinned. "Look, you don't need to do much. Like I said, I feel Barry's already into you."

"Preach it, brotha!" Cisco cheered. "But I _still_ don't think Cait's going to, you know, bat her eyes at anyone soon. It's not her usual skill set, if you know what I mean."

"Hear, hear," Caitlin said.

"Well, alright, it's not really seduction," Jax amended. "Just encourage him a little, that's all. Like, I don't know… Try laughing at his jokes…?"

Cisco suddenly straightened in his seat. "Oh my god, guys. _Guys_. I just had the best idea _ever_. This'll solve everything!"

"You say that about a lot of things," said Caitlin.

"No, this is legit brilliant. Like, 'why am I not laying offerings at your feet yet, Cisco' brilliant."

"Let's give him a chance," Felicity said benevolently.

Cisco grinned, undeterred. He opened his hands in an expansive gesture and declared, "It's Science and Tech Month!"

Everyone stared at him blankly.

"…And?"

He huffed and threw his hands up. " _Seriously?_ Come on, guys. Networking Night? Socials?"

Comprehension dawned in Felicity's eyes. "The party for all science and tech majors!"

It took another moment before Jax reacted. "Ohhh," he drawled. " _Sooo_ , I heard that Barry shifted from I.S. to forensic this year, and since it'll be his first party, there's no way he's going to miss it…"

"… _and_ , a nerd party is the only kind of party that Cait'll _willingly_ go to, so she won't miss it, either," Cisco finished, positively glowing with smugness. "You're going, right?"

Caitlin shrank back from their expectant gazes. "Well, I go every year to make sure you two idiots"—she jerked her chin to Felicity and Cisco—"get back in one piece," she said evasively. "And I still don't see how this all connects…"

"It's the _perfect_ opportunity!" Felicity insisted. "You'll be able to see who he's hanging out with, and whether or not there's, you know, a girl. _And_ if there isn't, you'll be able to loosen up and have fun with him. Well, you'll loosen up and have fun without him, anyway. It's a win-win!"

"What did I tell ya," Cisco beamed. "Brilliant, huh? It'll be even _better_ if we can get you a _liiiiittle_ tipsy, like that time—"

"That time does not exist," Caitlin said hotly, "thank you very much now please shut up."

Felicity and Cisco exchanged grins, and Jax stared cluelessly at them. " _What_ time?"

Caitlin gave her two good friends fierce glares, but Felicity only gave her a patronising pat on the arm. "Oh, relax, Cait."

Cisco clapped Jax on the back. "Sorry, man. It's like the Fight Club. We never talk about it."

(Now, what happened during that Unspeakable Time was simply that, a few years back, Caitlin had gotten drunk. Felicity and Cisco had described her drunk alter ego as "fun and wild and kinda flirty", none of which Caitlin could remember—not that she'd tried particularly hard to—but apparently, there was some dancing with a microphone stand, and more dancing on top of a table, and, when all the dancing was over, there were declarations of love made to a nearby karaoke machine.

Suffice to say, she never got drunk again after that.)

" _Anyway_ ," Felicity said, forming a steeple with her fingers, "I think it's time that you used _the_ dress, don't you think?"

Caitlin groaned. "Felicity. _No_."

"Cait, you _have_ to. Jax, you have to get her to wear _the_ dress."

"What's ' _the_ dress'…?"

" _The_ dress, my good friend," Felicity said, leaning in conspiratorially, "is seduction _personified_ …"

As Felicity chattered on, Caitlin's phone started vibrating. She frowned and fished her phone out of her pocket, wondering who on earth would possibly call her on a Sunday morning.

When she saw the caller ID, she blanched.

She hadn't even realised that her phone had slipped from her hands and clattered onto the table until her friends cried out and crowded around it, innocently vibrating on the wooden surface.

"Speak of the devil!" Cisco grinned.

"What do I say?" Caitlin said, agitated. Her pulse was already quickening, and she didn't like that. It made her even more nervous than she already was. "I don't know how I'm supposed to _talk_ to him after—after—"

"You gotta start now," Jax said. "C'mon, deep breaths. You got this."

"Go on, answer it!" Felicity urged, slipping the phone back into her hand. "Just slide the button and say 'hi.' That's not so hard, is it?"

And then, to Caitlin's horror, Felicity slid the answer button.

"Hi!" Caitlin squeaked. She shot Felicity a baleful look and cleared her throat. "Hi."

Felicity mouthed _speaker!_ to her, but Caitlin shot down her request. She was aware that her conversations with Barry didn't exactly sound very innocent, no thanks to him.

" _Caitlin, hey! Good morning!"_ His voice sounded like he'd just gotten up, but still she could almost hear the grin in his greeting. She gripped her phone tighter. Her hand was clammy and trembling. God, what was this boy doing to her? _"Um, I hope I didn't wake you…"_

"Barry, it's almost noon. Of course I'd be awake," she said, her voice steady despite her nerves.

Felicity gave her a thumbs up.

" _Oh, right. Right. Er, so, I woke up and realised that we've never talked about the post-lab report. I guess we could do it today?"_

"The post-lab report? Uh, well, I've already finished it."

"… _What? Without me? Does our partnership mean so little to you?"_

"Yes, I finished it without you," she confirmed, for the sake of her eavesdropping friends. "Sorry. You just didn't seem to have a lot of free time, and I enjoy doing post-labs, so. Yeah."

" _Oh."_ He sounded really bummed, and Caitlin frowned, feeling, for some absurd reason, the weight of guilt in her gut. This was insanity— _she_ had practically finished their report, and that wasn't exactly something either of them should feel bummed about. _"Well, okay…"_

"I haven't done the introduction and conclusion, yet, though," she said, mouth dry. "You could finish it up, if you—"

" _Introduction and conclusion?"_ he repeated. And then, his tone teasing, _"Gee, thanks for giving me so_ _much work. Such a slacker, Caitlin."_

She rolled her eyes. "Take it or leave it."

" _Okay, okay,_ _if you insist,"_ he said. Caitlin found herself biting her bottom lip harder than she should, trying to contain a small smile. She caught herself immediately, of course, remembering that she was in the presence of her friends and had a reputation to maintain, so instead settled on pressing her lips into a thin line. _"I'll meet you in the library in… fifteen minutes?"_

"The library? No, I can just send it to you online. We don't need to—" Caitlin cut herself off when her friends started gesturing wildly at her, and she scrunched her brow at in them an attempt to read their lips. "—I mean, okay," she amended slowly. "I suppose I could meet up with you."

Another thumbs-up, this time from all of them.

" _Great! See ya!"_

She hung up first and stared at three identical grins. "I cannot _believe_ I just agreed to that."

"You'll be fine. Just be yourself," Felicity said breezily. "And here. Put on some lip gloss. It doubles as a balm."

"How is that going to help me 'be myself'?"

"It'll help you be the _new_ you," Jax said, grinning. "Welcome to the first lesson of Seducing Barry All— _ow!_ Oh, come on, you asked for my help, so I'm helping you!"

"Also, your bottom lip is kinda bleeding," Cisco pointed out, resuming his attack on his now-soggy fries. "Wouldn't want to freak Barry out."

Caitlin touched her lip and sighed in defeat. She took the lip gloss.

"Well?" Cisco said. "Run along now! We don't want to be late for your date, _chica!_ "

"Cisco, the library is literally across us."

"Well, you walk slow, and Barry's like, the fastest man alive," Cisco persisted.

Caitlin raised a brow at him, sliding the gloss-slash-balm back to Felicity. "It'll take me three minutes at most to walk there." She pulled her laptop out. "Now stop sending me away."

"Off," Cisco said. "Sending you _off_. There's a difference." He paused to finish what he was eating, and he leaned on the table. "Geez, are you _working_? On such a fine Sunday morning? Hey, if you finish doing all your pre-labs in advance, can you do mine ins— _holy_ pepperoni, did you just… did you just _delete_ the entire conclusion?"

Caitlin quickly shut her laptop, her cheeks heating. "That was a different file."

"You also deleted the intro, didn't you?" He was brimming with glee when he turned to the others. "She deleted the intro and conclusion! The one she said she hadn't done!" And then, to her, "Awww, how _sweeeeet_! Awww, our widdle Caitlin is growing up…!"

"I'm _eight months_ older than you are," she muttered, grabbing her wallet and phone, and before Felicity and Jax could join in, she made a hasty retreat.

She didn't think she'd ever walked faster in her life.

* * *

Caitlin operated on auto-pilot on her way to the library, quickly settling into her usual spot. It seemed like she couldn't process her surroundings, so fixated was she on the fact that she was going to see Barry Allen so soon after her admission to herself, and she was terrified. What should she say? How should she act? What if she does something wrong, or says something stupid?

If she did… would he be able to tell that she liked him?

She twisted her hands around the fabric of her sweater and bit her lip hard, until she tasted the lip gloss and released it. She felt she was suspended in a painful state of physiological arousal—she was keenly aware of her own racing pulse, the clamminess of her hands, the seeming dryness of her mouth—all of which, come to think of it, she'd been experiencing to some extent every time she was around him, but which she hadn't been completely aware of, what with how effective her denial had been.

She rested her chin on the cool surface of the table and huffed. She hated how new and unfamiliar this all was, and how vulnerable she felt about it. How was he doing this to her? Barry Allen was just a boy, after all. She'd been around boys before—she was always around boys, actually, because of the course she'd taken—and, like Barry Allen, they'd talked to her, made mandatory science jokes, and occasionally succeeded in making her smile. A few of them—she shifted uncomfortably as she allowed the thought—were even passably good-looking.

What was so different about Barry Allen, then? She refused to believe she was attracted to him only because he was an athlete, because she'd met a few athletes in Oliver's parties that Felicity would drag her to back when he threw them for show, and even if some had been charming and moderately intelligent, Caitlin had regarded them with the same detached interest that she did with all unfamiliar people.

Barry Allen was not supposed to have gone further than detached interest. In fact, it would have been surprising enough had he merely gone from stranger to acquaintance in the span of a week. But no, he'd barrelled past all those boundaries of hers, and somehow, unfathomably, wormed his way into her affections…

On second thought, maybe that was what was different about him—his sheer persistence into getting her to talk to him. She wasn't used to it. What she was used to was people maintaining a polite distance from her. She'd initially assumed people stayed away because she was private and reserved, but after what Jax said that morning, it might have also been because she intimidated them. She'd never considered that before. And she found it hard to wrap her mind around the possibility that _Barry Allen_ was intimidated by her, since he was so infuriatingly persistent, but could it be that even he had his limits? Did she really seem so intimidating to him that he'd be deterred from pursuing—her breath shallowed at the thought—a relationship with her, assuming that he _did_ like her, in the first place?

Caitlin quickly went over their conversations in her head and winced. She _had_ been a little mean to him. Although, to be fair, she'd only been doing it in self-defence… She groaned and thumped her forehead on the table, feeling frustrated. She just didn't know what to _do_ with herself where he was concerned. He should've come with a user's manual, she mused. It would be very nice to have neat, step-by-step instructions, like _Should you find Barry Allen's flirting uncomfortable, simply uninstall the program "Flirty"_ …

Caitlin shot up when she heard her name. Her heart leapt to her throat when she saw him smiling widely while making his way to her. He was wearing a fitted forest green polo shirt—what was it with him and fitted shirts, god—and a pair of dark wash jeans. When he moved closer, she saw that part of his collar was upturned and his hair was sticking out everywhere.

On other people it might have looked sloppy, but he somehow managed to make it look endearing.

Yeah, she was a goner.

"I figured you'd be here," he said, sliding his laptop out of his bag. "You didn't answer my call, so I was like, _if I were a really nerdy molecular biology major, where would I sit? Hmmm, shall I sit near the Shakespeare section or shall I sit near the molecular biology textbooks?_ "

It took some time before Caitlin found her voice. She tried very hard not to fixate on how his shirt brought out the green of his eyes, and how she very much wanted to smoothen his collar. "What a dilemma," she said. "I hope you didn't have to exert yourself by thinking."

She winced inwardly. Even when she was nervous, sarcasm seemed to come naturally to her. She wasn't even aiming for sarcastic. But then, if she'd suddenly become nicer to him, surely he'd notice that something was wrong…

"It _was_ difficult," he said, with a theatrical sigh. " _To molecular biology, or not to molecular biology?_ That is the question. Or," he suddenly leaned forward and she leaned back, her face heating at the intensity of his gaze, " _why_ are you wearing lip gloss? Now that is the real question."

She pressed her lips into a line self-consciously, and then said, defensive, "What, is it a crime to wear lip gloss?"

"No, but it is if you look good with it," he said, grinning. "It's a nice colour on you."

Caitlin found it very hard to swallow. She couldn't tell if he was being sincere or just incredibly smooth, but it was safer to assume the latter. Still, it didn't stop the heat from rushing to her face. "Well," she managed, after a few more seconds of convincing herself that he wasn't being sincere, "don't be jealous now. I'm sure we can find a colour for you."

He laughed. " _Someone's_ grumpy," he said. "Would it kill you to say 'thank you'?"

"If I did, would we be able to start working?"

He blinked. "Already?" he said. "But it's too early to start working!"

"Barry, it's past noon."

"This is early for me," he insisted. "And I have too much energy right now, I can't concentrate on anything until I talk it out. Please? Please?"

He was now giving her this sort of kicked-puppy look, and Caitlin sighed, feeling defeated. She really didn't understand why she liked him. She had no clue. "Fine—"

"Yesss!" He leaned his elbows on the table, grinning. "So this morning—"

"—you have ten minutes."

"— _ten minutes?_ Are you giving me a talking time limit?"

"Countdown begins now, by the way."

"Oh, come on. Fifteen?"

"Ten."

"Twenty?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Twelve, or we won't get anything done."

"Yesss! Psyched you," he beamed. "So, anyway, this morning, I grabbed some lunch at Jitters. Did you know that they serve lasagne already? I think—"

In the distance, there was the sound of someone shushing them. Caitlin glanced over her shoulder to see the librarian glaring at their table.

"Sorry," Barry mouthed to the librarian with a sheepish grin, before slouching further forward, as if that would make him less conspicuous. Caitlin mirrored his action so that she could hear him whisper, but that also meant that she'd brought her face closer to his. She could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and the clumps of wet hair sticking out of his head, and that maddening part of his collar that remained stubbornly upturned.

She fisted her hands in an attempt to control herself.

"I think they have the best lasagne ever," he was saying, his eyes darting back to the librarian before focusing on her again. "I'm not kidding. I could probably eat it for the rest of my life, and I'd die a happy man."

Caitlin found it hard to stop staring at his collar. "That would be unhealthy," she said.

"No, it won't," he protested. "Pasta has carbs, ground beef is a source of protein, and the sauce is made from a vegetable—"

"—fruit," Caitlin cut in. "Tomato is a fruit."

He blinked. "Oh, right, it is," he said. "How inconsiderate of me, I forgot that tomatoes can have identity crises too." He continued in a faux British accent, "To be a fruit, or not to be a fruit?"

Caitlin bit her lip to stifle a smile. She didn't know why she was—it was a terrible joke—but then her facial muscles weren't coordinating very well with her brain right now. "Are you alright? You seem unwell."

"I'm peachy," he replied, grinning. "Are you? I don't know if it's just me, but it looks like you're trying to smile."

She blushed again and tried to formulate a response, but all that came out was a rather unconvincing "No, I'm not."

"I don't know, Caitlin, it looks suspiciously like it," he continued. "Laughing is like taking a crap, you know. You'll feel better once you let it all out."

"That's a rather enlightening analogy," she said dryly.

"I know. It's my privilege to be your enlightener." He flashed her another grin. "How much time do I have left?"

The question confused Caitlin for a moment before she remembered that she was supposed to be keeping time. She glanced at her phone. "Nine minutes."

"Good," he said. "So, how was your day?"

She blinked at him. She couldn't very well tell him that she'd spent the first two waking hours of the day discussing him with Felicity. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know about your day?" he said, looking amused. "Relax, Caitlin. It's a perfectly innocent question."

She licked her lips, tasting strawberry on her tongue, and unfurled and balled her fists again. She realised that she didn't exactly know how to handle a 'normal' conversation with him, like back when they were in that restaurant and he'd suddenly asked her what her favourite colour was. "It was okay," she began, reluctant. "I woke up, took a shower, and had brunch with Felicity, Cisco, and Jax."

"You always have brunch with them?"

"Usually," she said. "But it depends. Sometimes Jax hangs out with his other friends, sometimes Cisco sleeps in, and sometimes Felicity meets up with Oliver. It's never happened all at once, though, since eating on a Sunday morning is our ritual. Well, especially for me, Felicity, and Cisco. We've been doing it since high school." Caitlin suddenly cut herself off, surprised that she'd said so much.

Barry hummed. "Iris and I have something like that, too. We go grocery-shopping together on Sunday afternoons, since we always went grocery-shopping with our families on Sundays."

"You and Iris seem to go a long way back."

"Yeah, we were neighbours," he said. "Our dads got along really well, and my mom"—he paused for a split-second, so briefly that Caitlin might have imagined it—"was like a mom to Iris, too. Er, it's not my story to tell, but basically Iris's mom wasn't really around. So when our dads were out for work, my mom would watch us. We got really close. I mean, we're practically siblings."

"I see," she said. She bit her lip to contain herself from asking more questions, but she found herself wanting to know more about him, wanting to see beyond his carefree, popular boy-next-door façade. "You said your roommate was Iris' brother?" she ventured. "He doesn't go grocery-shopping with you?"

"Oh, Wally only came into the picture when we were about to graduate high school," Barry said. "It's a long story, really, I won't be able to finish it before the time"—he grinned briefly, but Caitlin knew better than to pry—"but he does tag along sometimes."

"Hmmm," she said. "I can't imagine you shopping for groceries."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It's not an insult," she said quickly. "I meant that you look like the type of person to stockpile enough supplies for a semester, instead of going out regularly. I mean, I know Cisco and Jax stockpile, so…"

"So you're imagining my dorm room packed with junk food in every possible open space, with a more than a handful of mouldy things in the fridge."

"That would be close to what I had in mind," she admitted, allowing a small smile.

"I'm hurt that you've such a low opinion of me," he said, pouting. "But hey, _I_ at least, throw out the mouldy things. Like, once a week. Okay, fine, once a month. I swear it."

She raised a brow. "Very hygienic of you."

"Yep, our room's downright sterile compared to other dorms," he said cheerfully.

"But then you _do_ stockpile junk food."

"Wally and I have a hidden stash," he admitted sheepishly. "We keep it from Iris, since she's roping us in on her whole organic food phase. Please don't tell her I told you."

"Don't worry," she said dryly, "I don't think your eating habits will ever become a topic of conversation between us."

"You'll never know," he warned. "Iris is really sneaky, okay. She's a damn good journalist and she gets really scary when she's trying to get to the bottom of something, like this one time—"

They both started when Caitlin's phone vibrated to indicate that time was up.

"Five more minutes?" Barry pleaded, giving her that infuriating kicked-puppy look that she was finding very hard to refuse, but Caitlin twisted a hand in her sweater and resolutely shook her head. She _had_ to refuse, because if they kept talking like this, she didn't think she could stop asking him questions. Her natural curiosity was taking over, and she found herself increasingly interested in his life, even in his most mundane habits.

"Sorry," she said, "twelve minutes is twelve minutes. Time to work. I'll send you the file."

He groaned. "You're a slave driver."

"No, I'm a hard worker."

"Hard workers don't make other workers work hard too," he muttered. "Can I at least finish my story?"

She pressed the enter button harder than she should have. "Sent on Facebook."

"Caitliiin…"

"Barry…"

They both stared at each other, stubborn and unwilling to back down.

Caitlin's gaze unwittingly flitted to his upturned collar again. Her hand twitched at her side.

Felicity was right when she'd pointed out her compulsive need to clean, organise, or fix things, because now his stupid collar just wouldn't leave her alone. It wouldn't hurt to just fix it herself, would it? It would only take five seconds, maybe even less…

Ah, darn it all.

Before she knew it, she was reaching over and running her fingers on the rim of his collar, careful to avoid touching the skin of his neck. She gently tugged down the upturned portion and smoothened it over, particularly at the part where the fabric folded, so that it would stay down.

When she sat down again, she saw Barry giving her an odd look.

"Sorry," she muttered, heat rushing to her face, "it was sticking up, and, uh, it bothered me."

"Oh." A small, strange smile crept to his face. "Er, thanks."

"No problem."

There was a slight pause. And then, "So," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "you sent the file on Facebook, right?"

Caitlin blinked, a bit puzzled by his lack of resistance. She felt something had changed in the air between them, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it…

Ah, well. As long as he was being cooperative and she wasn't a complete bumbling mess yet, she supposed that it couldn't have been a bad thing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes:** When I first planned this fic, I was aiming for it to be short and sweet at 10 chapters, but it looks like it's going to be longer than that. I'm now estimating it to reach 17-20 chapters, but we'll see. Thanks so much again for your patience and your reviews! And, I PASSED MY BOARDS! WHEE! And also, advanced happy birthday to flashport90! Hope you'll have a not-so-stressful one!

 **Disclaimer:** I based the experiment off what we did in class, adapted from Perry et al.'s (2007) _Essential Laboratory Exercises for General Biology._

* * *

 **caitlin_snow93:** Greetings, birthgiver

 **caitlin_snow93:** I have a question

 **caitlin_snow93:** That I feel I'll regret asking

 **caitlin_snow93:** But then I've done a lot of regrettable things in the past 36 hours

 **worm_whisperer58:** Greetings , daughter cell ! OF COURSE ! You can ALWAYS ask me ANYTHING !

 **worm_whisperer58:** I will do my BEST to DISPENSE motherly advice ! ;-) ;-) ;-)

 **caitlin_snow93:** Let's say that a hypothetical girl, under peer duress, is asked to seduce a boy

 **caitlin_snow93:** Or get him to like her

 **caitlin_snow93:** Or get him to admit liking her

 **caitlin_snow93:** How should the hypothetical girl go about this

 **worm_whisperer58:** WHAT !

 **worm_whisperer58:** SEDUCTION ? !

 **worm_whisperer58:** Is that STILL a THING ? !

 **worm_whisperer58:** Aren't YOUNG ONES more DIRECT these days ? !

 **worm_whisperer58:** Is it that BARNEY FELLOW ? !

 **caitlin_snow93:** Barry

 **caitlin_snow93:** WHAT

 **worm_whisperer58:** GOTCHA ! ;-) ;-) ;-) No need for SEDUCTION ! PSH !

 **worm_whisperer58:** Just ask him if he would like to " MAKE OUT " with you ! ;-) ;-) ;-)

 **caitlin_snow93:** …

 **caitlin_snow93:** As a mother maybe you should be a tad bit more disapproving

 **worm_whisperer58:** Oh PLEASE , darling , I KNOW what I'm doing !

 **worm_whisperer58:** And I KNOW you ! TBH , you CANNOT seduce ANYTHING to save your life !

 **worm_whisperer58:** Unfortunately , it's one skill you DID NOT inherit from me :-( :-( :-(

 **caitlin_snow93:** …

 **caitlin_snow93:** …?

 **caitlin_snow93:** …?!

 **worm_whisperer58:** Speaking of , we have a NEW BATCH of INTERNS coming in ! A handful are VERY EASY on the EYES , if you get my MEANING ! ;-) ;-) ;-)

 **caitlin_snow93:** MOTHER

 **caitlin_snow93:** Oh my god STOP

 **caitlin_snow93:** I swear I'll disown you

 **caitlin_snow93:** You'll be sued for like… pedophilia or something

 **worm_whisperer58:** LAMAO , I KID !

 **caitlin_snow93:** I feel like I'm scarred for life

 **worm_whisperer58:** NOT pedophilia , BTW ! The term is COUGAR ! POLITICAL CORRECTNESS , darling ! :-l (That's a DISAPPROVING ego ion )

 **worm_whisperer58:** Emo icon

 **caitlin_snow93:** Emoticon?

 **worm_whisperer58:** But seriously , darling , just BE YOURSELF ! :-) :-) :-)

 **worm_whisperer58:** OR be a more TALKATIVE version of yourself ! Be more OPEN ! Be CURIOUS !

 **worm_whisperer58:** You know your father was NOT charming but he used to ASK me A LOT of QUESTIONS to get to know me ! He kept LISTS !

 **worm_whisperer58:** It made him SEEM genuinely interested…

 **caitlin_snow93:** Hell no

 **caitlin_snow93:** I'm not taking tips from Dad

 **worm_whisperer58:** That WAS a long time ago

 **worm_whisperer58:** He was a PLEASANT person then, believe it or not…

 **worm_whisperer58:** But just don't be so CLOSED OFF , OK , darling ? :-) :-) :-)

 **caitlin_snow93:** Well

 **caitlin_snow93:** I don't know

 **caitlin_snow93:** I guess I'll try…

 **worm_whisperer58:** GOOD ! Now go and MAKE ME PROUD ! ;-) ;-) ;-)

* * *

Come Monday morning, Caitlin was convinced that "crush" was too mild a word for what she was going through. At least the word "crush", no matter how silly it sounded, also connoted the quick and violent use of force to destroy something—presumably the action performed by the object of affection to one's heart—and while Caitlin was not a violent person, she would rather have her heart pulverised in one go than to have it slowly eroded away. Having her heart crushed would be a mercy compared to this drawn-out agony.

She should probably file a petition to Merriam-Webster regarding that semantic gap. _Dear Sir or Madame: Good day! In order to remedy the appalling lack of synonyms for the word_ _crush_ _ **4** (n.)_ _, I have taken the liberty to provide you with suggestions. Kindly see the attached file for a comprehensive list of medieval torture instruments._

God. It was hopeless. _She_ was hopeless.

Caitlin stared listlessly at her pre-lab notes. She'd given up reviewing altogether when she realised that she'd been rereading the title over and over again, and right now, her concentration was completely shot because she couldn't stop imagining how it would be like to work with Barry Allen for the entire four hours of the class. Her hands were already turning cold at the thought of it: how a possible slip of the tongue or a wayward blush could betray what she really felt about him… And not only to him, but to _everyone else._ She was so keenly aware of her own emotions that she was half-convinced that others could see them so blatantly displayed, too.

She risked a quick glance at Hartley. When he'd come in he'd given her his usual snarky greeting, but in her distracted state she must've only given him a simple "good morning", because he regarded her for a moment with a mild surprise. And then, a slow, smug smirk spread across his face. Hartley was terribly perceptive—part of his meanness was due to his ability to turn observations into insults—and Caitlin had a nagging feeling that he _knew_ , even if he hadn't been around last week.

But then, right now, he was being all quiet and docile, so maybe she was just paranoid…

 _This is torture,_ she thought sullenly. She wondered if there would ever be an end to it.

The shrill ringing of the first bell abruptly jarred her from her thoughts. A few seconds later, Dr. Wells walked in, and in classic Pavlovian reaction, Caitlin straightened in her seat. All the muted conversations around her tapered into a reverential silence.

She spared a nervous glance at the door, aware that her lab partner still hadn't arrived.

"Good morning," Dr. Wells said. He slid the attendance sheet on the surface of his table and gave the class a cursory look. "Mr. Rathaway, how nice of you to finally join us." Hartley grunted behind her. "Ms. Snow, will Mr. Allen be coming in?"

She glanced at the door again. "I believe so…"

Dr. Wells nodded and ticked everyone else off on his list. "Alright, while we wait for Mr. Allen, I have an announcement to make," he continued. "A few of you have e-mailed me asking whether or not we were going to have a quiz today. I think I've neglected to mention that I don't give objective quizzes."

There was a chorus of cheers from the class. Caitlin, however, frowned, because she was supposed to make up for her B-minus in lab performance last week by acing the quizzes. That, and she rather enjoyed objective quizzes. They were all very neat and predictable, and very much unlike, say, having a crush on someone.

And no, she was _not_ sulking about it.

"Not so fast," Dr. Wells interjected. "Now, in place of weekly objective quizzes, I'll be holding check-up oral exams every three experiments."

Caitlin nearly choked. _Orals for lab?! Is he insane?!_

She was about to raise her protests when none other than Barry Allen himself waltzed into the room in all his windswept, tight-shirted glory, and her voice just died in her throat. There was a flutter in her chest and a fuzziness in her mind that muted all other sound and blurred all other objects around him, and she became transfixed on how he looked in the glow of early the morning sun—how his messy hair turned a nearly honey-brown hue, how his eyes turned into a more vibrant shade of green—and how he rubbed the nape of his neck while apologising to Dr. Wells for being late.

Caitlin decided that his his messy brown hair and his sheepishness were things that were fast making their way up her mental "Most Endearing Qualities in Human Beings" list (a list that was, so far, exclusively occupied by only one human being).

She couldn't believe herself. Here was an announcement that could further damage her chances at an A—she'd never been good at oral exams—and yet that harrowing thought was eclipsed by his mere presence. She didn't care what Felicity said—she was convinced that she was under some evil spell… That, or her hormones were unleashing hell to make up for their lack of stage time back when she was a teenager. Bleeding hormones. It wasn't enough that they made her bleed every month, they now also made her giddy over ridiculous things like the arrangement and pigmentation of the keratinised proteins on Barry Allen's head.

"Hey, what's everyone freaking out about?" he said, giving her a crooked smile and sliding into the seat in front of her. He smelled nice, as usual, and his irises were a more vivid green up close, and Caitlin was still trying to remember how to use her vocal cords, because all she could think about was the ten different ways she could describe his eyes, about three-fourths of which consisted of words she'd never even used before. Like chartreuse, for example. She didn't even know how she knew the word chartreuse, and it was far too fancy to use in conversation, but it was a splendid word to describe the exact shade of Barry Allen's eyes in the 8 o'clock sunlight…

He suddenly lowered his head to peer at her, and she didn't even flinch, not even when he brought his face close to hers. She observed that there was a light smattering of freckles across his nose, and she mentally added that to the "Most Endearing Qualities in Human Beings" list—

"Hey, are you okay? You look a little dazed."

Now that jolted her from her trance.

Caitlin abruptly straightened in her seat, face heating. "Sorry, it's just"—she swallowed and made a vague gesture with her hand to stall—"Dr. Wells's announcement just surprised me," she managed to say. "He's giving us orals instead of quizzes."

He raised a brow and flashed her a sly grin. "You're going to have to give me a little more context than that."

Well, now. _This_ part of him was definitely not going to make it on the "Most Endearing Qualities in Human Beings" list. She had to make a separate list for this. Or maybe she should just stop making lists about human beings that actually revolved exclusively around Barry Allen, period. "You're going to have to be a little more PG than that," she returned. "Maybe if you weren't so late, you would've had sufficient context to understand everyone's alarm."

"Hey, three minutes is hardly late."

" _Five._ You were late for _five_ minutes."

"Ah, my apologies. But I'm really flattered that you kept track of how long I was gone." His smile turned mischievous. "I don't need sufficient context to _that_ to know you've missed me."

"I appreciate punctuality in my lab partners," she said stiffly. She angled her body even further away from him so that she would hardly be able to glimpse him, not even from her peripheral vision.

"Aw, lighten up. You're giving me a harder time than Dr. Wells did." He paused and lowered his voice as Dr. Wells answered Bette's question, and Caitlin vaguely realised that she hadn't quite been listening to what was happening in class. "Not that I meant that as an innuendo—"

"I would also appreciate complete silence right about now so I can hear what we need to do to ace the exam."

He snorted. "Oh, come on. You'd ace it in your sleep, Caitlin." He nudged her, and the patch of skin he'd touched remained warm even after he drew back. "You practically have the whole manual memorised."

She was so flustered that she didn't know how to respond, but thankfully, she didn't have to figure that out, because he finally shifted his attention to Dr. Wells. Much to her surprise, though, he raised his hand to clarify something that was apparently mentioned earlier—and she felt a little put out that he was able to concentrate on Dr. Wells while talking to her, as, in the meantime, she could hardly focus on anything else _but_ him.

She chose not to dwell on that, though. She'd dwelt on Barry Allen-related matters for far too long already, so she did her best to tune in to Dr. Wells's instructions instead.

* * *

After Dr. Wells had explained his rationale for giving oral exams ("I'm not training you to be lab technicians, I'm training you to be innovators, and oral exams will be a better gage of your critical thinking skills than objective quizzes"), he proceeded with a short lecture on macromolecules before instructing them to pair up and gather the reagents needed for the experiment. The entire thing passed without incident—Barry had dutifully listened to the lecture and taken down notes, and she'd only realised that Hartley was around when he'd asked a question. A _normal_ question, at that, not the ones he usually asked to one-up professors.

Just when Caitlin considered that maybe Hartley really was trying to turn over a new leaf this term, he sidled up to her when Barry Allen had gone to the front to collect the reagents and said silkily, "Gaping is unbecoming, you know."

She narrowed her eyes halfway through putting on her lab coat, and he smirked, tilting his head towards Barry Allen's direction. Before Caitlin could fully grasp the implications of what he'd just said, he added in a lazy drawl, "Just like that shirt you're wearing. Jesus, where do you get your clothes? Goodwill?"

Her glare hardened. "Why, thank you for the fashion advice, Hartley. Perhaps we can discuss where to get my next outfit while painting our nails and giggling over boys."

"I never knew giggling over boys was on our agenda," he replied, his tone as snide as hers. "But since it is, maybe we should talk about your new lab partner. Athlete, isn't he?"

He spat the word 'athlete' like it was an insult. "He isn't stupid, if that's what you're implying," she said. "I'd even go so far as to say that I prefer working with him than with you."

"Oh, and that's supposed to hurt my feelings," he scoffed. "I'm not really sure who deserves more pity—you or him. Of course, you'll have to pick up on his slack, and working with imbeciles is by far the worst torture… But then again, _you're_ going to make him feel like shit for not being able to do anything right." He hummed. "I wonder how long he's going to last."

"I wonder how long _you're_ going to last, with Dr. Wells keeping his eye on you," she retorted. "He's got you scared, hasn't he?"

"Please. Professors don't scare me." Caitlin observed that he risked a quick glance at Dr. Wells, who was assisting Eliza with the first reagent. If it wasn't fear, she reckoned that it was the closest thing to respect that she'd ever seen in him.

"Ah, look. Here comes the newbie."

Sure enough, Barry Allen was making his way towards them, intently keeping watch over the test tube rack that he was holding. Despite his efforts, though, the test tubes rattled as he walked, and Caitlin couldn't help but wince a little. Hartley caught her movement and smirked.

"Well, if it isn't Barry Allen," he drawled. "The athlete with at least half a brain. I thought your kind was mythical."

Barry looked up, surprised at having been addressed. He glanced at Caitlin, and she quickly mouthed 'Hartley'. His confusion turned into a dark look. "You must be Hartley. I've heard a lot of things about you."

"Awful things, I'm sure, most of which are probably true," Hartley said dismissively. "Well, I've already wasted too much of my time here, so I'm off. And Frosty"—his eyes flicked very briefly to Barry Allen, and a sneer made its way to his face—"you really should stop staring."

Caitlin felt like the floor had disappeared beneath her. When he'd first commented about her gaping, she couldn't have been sure what he was referring to, but now there was no doubt about it. Had she really been so obvious? How could _Hartley_ have noticed, not even an hour into the class?

She felt a little faint. He was going to tell everyone, she was sure. He was going to blackmail her and Barry Allen was going to know and since he was too nice to let her down quickly and brutally, she'd probably get a roundabout rejection that she would never really know for sure was a rejection—

"What an asshole," Barry Allen muttered. "How did you put up with him?"

Caitlin blinked.

Barry Allen had slipped on his lab coat, and he was now checking the temperature of the water in the beaker on the hot plate. He didn't seem to have picked up on the implications of Hartley's last comment, or else she was certain that he'd have been unbearable about it already.

She licked her lips and found her voice. "We talked as little as possible during experiments," she said. "He isn't as snarky once we start working."

"So if he isn't working, he's pretty much a terrible person?"

She shrugged. "It's the only way he knows how to get along with people."

"If you could call that getting along," he said, shooting one last dirty look in Hartley's direction. And then, he grinned at her. "Aren't you glad you're with me instead?"

Caitlin cleared her throat and pretended to be busy with the Benedict's reagent. "I suppose your company is more tolerable."

"Hey, I resent that," he said. "My company is fantastic."

"Really, now. I wonder who's going to testify to that."

"Well, there's me."

"The nature of a testimony necessitates someone other than yourself."

"Well, there's also you." He grinned, even when she shot him a disbelieving look. "Hey, come on. Am I not fun? Does your funness quotient not jump from 0 to 100 just by being in basking in my mere presence?"

"My baseline fun-ness quotient is _not_ 0\. And there is no such word as funness."

"Sure there is. _Funness, noun. Definition: An exceedingly handsome male named Bartholomew Allen."_

"Bartholomew Allen hardly sounds like a fun name. It sounds like a stuffy noble in tights from the Middle Ages."

"Imagining me in tights, are you?" He grinned. "You and your fetishes, Caitlin."

She spluttered. " _What—_ I'll let you know that—that I have no desire whatsoever to indulge in such… _things."_

"What would you desire to indulge in, then?" he teased, and her bleeding traitor of a mind just _had_ to conjure up an image of Barry Allen in his track suit, muscles rippling under the skintight fabric, an image that effectively sent a fierce blush crawling up her neck, "Maybe some dark, sumptuous—"

"—we really should get back to working—"

"—sinful, orgasmic—"

"—look, the other pairs are already starting—"

"—chocolate cake?"

Barry gave her an innocent smile.

She didn't know whether she should slap him or kiss him.

Wait, _what?_

Caitlin felt her airways constricting, and she shut her eyes for a brief moment in an attempt to compose herself. She was going insane, she was sure of it, because the normal Caitlin Snow would be repulsed at kissing. The normal Caitlin Snow wouldn't even consider it kissing—it was swapping saliva, it was inhaling each other's bad breaths, it was—

"Hey, hey, are you okay? You look pale."

She opened her eyes. "I'm fine," she said shortly.

"Are you sure? You went from like, normal flesh to really white in under a second," he insisted.

She fidgeted under his gaze. His concern was both disconcerting and touching, and it was making her flustered. "It's—it's the oral exams next week," she said lamely, rehashing her earlier excuse. He looked unconvinced, so she added, "I saw Eliza working, and I remembered my last orals was with her. We got a good grade, but well, orals aren't exactly my forte."

"Oh," he said. "Well, fear not, m'lady, because it's mine. Talking with a time limit is something I'm getting used to." He gave her a meaningful look. "We shall slay those orals together."

She was still a little disconcerted, but couldn't help the small smile that played on her lips. He seemed to have seen it before she could catch herself, because his face split into a silly grin.

"Still in a Shakespearean mood, Sir Allen?" she said, surprising even herself with how easily she allowed the playful quip.

He did a little mock-bow. "I find I'd gladly play Shakespeare's fool to see you smile, m'lady."

There was a warm fluttering in her chest again.

This really was getting ridiculous.

She bit her lip hard and started arranging the test tubes according to her hypothesis of the results for the Benedict's Test. She cleared her throat twice and avoided his gaze. "Okay, I'm done setting up. So… Shall we start?"

* * *

"Have you ever acted in a play before?"

Barry looked up from his notebook, puzzled. "What? Why do you ask?"

Caitlin bit her lip. After nearly humiliating herself again in front of Barry Allen for the second time that day, she'd decided it was best to redeem herself by initiating a normal conversation with him. She'd decided to take her mother's advice to be more open and just ask questions, but she really had no idea _how_ to do that—that had been Barry Allen's job for the better part of their acquaintanceship—and, after discarding a couple of clearly inappropriate opening questions, she'd settled on something very loosely related to their conversation before they'd started working. She felt rather self-conscious now, not knowing how to defend her topic of choice.

"Just trying to make small talk," she mumbled, preparing the reagent for Fehling's Test. "Of course, you shouldn't feel obliged to pursue the topic if it doesn't interest you—"

He laughed. "Relax, Caitlin. You asking me something that's not related to the experiment is a little unexpected, that's all." He grinned. "I did act back in high school. Just to try it out, you know."

The tension left her shoulders, and to feign nonchalance she cross-checked her notes with the results he'd recorded down. "Any Shakespearean roles?"

"No, unfortunately. The only role I ever played in the entirety of my one-year acting career was a grumpy grape."

"A _grumpy_ _grape?"_

"Yeah," he said, sheepish. "We staged it for kindergarteners, and we adapted a few parts from this show called _VeggieTales._ Don't ask. It was just really popular back then. So I auditioned for Larry Cucumber, but then for some reason they gave me Tom Grape instead… _Hey,_ don't laugh!"

Caitlin couldn't help it—she was wracked with paroxysms of silent laughter. _This_ confident, popular Barry Allen, playing the role of a _grape_ for a _kindergartener's play?_

"Oh, that's not all. I was a _singing_ grumpy grape. I'm not kidding, I had to put on this huge green Styrofoam ball, and I had to sing and dance while wearing it. It was a real struggle. I had to practice it so many times I still know the lines." He then put on an exaggerated cranky expression, and in a phlegmy, old-man's voice, began singing, " _'We are the grapes of wrath, we'll never take a bath! It's our style to seldom smile and never laugh…'"_

Caitlin clapped a hand over her mouth to contain her laughter. It was so utterly ridiculous, but somehow not unimaginable—she could see him doing it for the delight of five-year-olds, and she really, really shouldn't be as endeared at the thought than she currently was, because her "Most Endearing Qualities in Human Beings" was growing at such alarming pace she couldn't even remember it all anymore.

"There…" she gasped, trying to catch her breath, "there _has_ to be photographic evidence of that."

"My mom took a video, but I'm taking it with me to my grave," he said solemnly. "Or, should I say, to my _grape_ yard."

She snorted, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes to dispel the sheen of unshed tears—had she really laughed so hard?—and, when she opened them again, she found him looking at her with a small smile, one that was distinctly different from his usual grin.

She drew back self-consciously. "Is there something on my face?"

He quickly looked away. "No—no, your face is fine. It's more than fine, really." He coughed. "I mean. It's just. I haven't seen you laugh like that. It's… it's, you know… Nice. It's really nice."

There was that strange fluttering in her chest again. Bleeding hell, if she thought that overthinking her crush on him was pure agony, _this_ was even more painful. She felt like she would explode from sheer giddiness, and it scared her.

She began rearranging his set-up again according to her hypothesis of the results, and for once, there was an uncomfortable silence between them. She could feel his eyes on her, and it took her awhile to notice that the slight rattling of the test tubes she was holding was due to her trembling hands.

* * *

Caitlin didn't exactly attempt conversation again after that, and Barry Allen seemed more subdued by the time the fourth part of the experiment rolled around.

After a few more quiet moments, he spoke up. "Hey, is there something wrong with my set-up?"

Caitlin blinked, caught completely off-guard by the question. "What…?"

"You've kind of been redoing everything that I've done," he said, gesturing at how she'd just rearranged the test tubes. "You re-rinse all the materials I've rinsed, and you double-check all the results I've written down." He looked a little uncomfortable. "Look, if I'm doing something wrong—"

"No," she said quickly. "There's nothing wrong with your work. It's just second nature to me to double-check everything. I honestly can't help it. Just now I've just been rearranging them according to—"

"The results," he supplied. "I figured that out after the Benedict's Test. You put all possible carbohydrates together, and then proteins, and then lipids. And then within each macromolecule group, you arrange them from most likely to least likely to produce positive results."

"Precisely," she said, a little impressed. "And since Barfoed's Test is for monosaccharides, I grouped the orange juice, soda, and milk together."

He looked hesitant. "Why milk, though?"

"Milk contains lactose, which is made up of the monosaccharides glucose and galactose. I'm just curious to see if it's possible that there are traces of glucose or galactose, or if either of them are used instead of lactose," she explained. "Of course, it's all speculation at this point."

When she glanced up again at him, he was double-checking his notes, and seemed like he wanted to say something. But, instead, he closed his notebook and shrugged. "Okay. If you say so."

Caitlin gave him a dubious look and nodded, but she couldn't bring herself to begin the experiment. Something in his tone didn't sit right with her—it was the same tone that her blockmates, other than Hartley, used on her when they had an opinion but deferred to hers. And, it was the same tone Barry Allen had adopted when she'd asked him about his favourite dead scientist.

In the case of the former, she usually didn't mind when other people deferred to her opinion. Lab experiments had to be finished within the period, and contrary to what the word 'experiment' connoted, they didn't actually get to experiment with the process or redo a botched try, so Caitlin always did her research beforehand to make sure there were as little mistakes as possible in the actual conduct. Everyone else just trusted her research and her method of performing the experiment.

But in this case, it didn't sit well with her that Barry Allen would defer to her so easily. She remembered Jax's words about her being intimidating, and Hartley's words to her just this morning about making her lab partners feel like shit—excepting Hartley himself—and she felt guilt stirring in her gut.

She took a deep breath.

"You don't have to agree with me all the time," she said tentatively, watching his expression. "I heard you just shifted into a science course, so you're probably just starting to take the bulk of the core science subjects, but you shouldn't feel… less qualified than other science majors for it."

She shifted in her seat at his look of surprise. He ran a hand through his hair and let it settle on the back of his neck before shoving it in his pocket. "So you heard I shifted," he said, smiling slightly. "Have you been spying on me, Caitlin?"

" _No,"_ she spluttered. "I just—I just happened on that piece of very common knowledge—"

"—while spying on me?"

"—while I was at your meet," she finished. "Your life isn't enticing enough to be spied on."

"Oh, really now," he said, grinning. "And what would make it enticing for you?"

She fidgeted with the test tubes. "Milk," she said, "is a rather enticing topic."

His grin melted into amusement, and he stared at her for what seemed like a fraction of a second longer than was normal—not that Caitlin ever timed anyone staring to be able to obtain the average staring time, it was simply a feeling—before opening his notebook again and glancing at his notes.

"Well, it's just that lactose is chemically bonded glucose and galactose," he began. He glanced up at her, as if for affirmation, and she nodded for him to go on. "And it's not like lactose is synthesised in the laboratory, so I think it's unlikely that there'd be trace amounts of glucose and galactose."

"Unless it's Lactaid milk," she argued. "Glucose is one of the substitutes for lactose in lactose-free milk."

He scoffed. "Come on, what's the probability that Dr. Wells would use Lactaid milk for an experiment? I don't think the grocery near here sells it, and I'm there every Sunday."

"Well, maybe he got it from another grocery," Caitlin said. "Maybe he's lactose-intolerant and keeps a few cartons of Lactaid milk around."

"We should just ask Dr. Wells if he's lactose-intolerant, then."

Caitlin bristled. "Never mind, that's besides the point. I'm just saying that I prefer to take all possibilities into account, even the most improbable ones."

Barry looked thoughtful for a moment, before he leaned on his elbows and grinned. "I know, let's make a deal. If I'm right and there aren't any monosaccharides in milk, you have to go my meet this Thursday."

She raised a brow. It really was unlikely that it was Lactaid milk, but Caitlin couldn't resist a challenge. "And if _I'm_ right?"

He wagged his eyebrows. "You get to have your way with me."

She gave him a withering look. "If I'm right, your talking time limit is reduced to seven minutes."

"Aw, really?" he pouted. "Well, I can always talk faster, anyway. So, do we have a deal?"

"Fine."

They shook on it, and they bickered for awhile on who would perform the experiment, but Barry was a lot quicker and his limbs were longer, so he reached the dropper before she could. His expression turned serious as he mixed the reagent in with the milk, and they both waited with bated breath for the prescribed one minute to allow the reaction to take place.

"Get ready to admit defeat, Caitlin," he teased, when his watch beeped to indicate that time was up.

"Not likely, Barry," she shot back.

He swirled the liquid in the test tube and glanced at the bottom to check for a red precipitate. When the liquid remained a milky blue—indicating the absence of a reaction, and therefore the absence of monosaccharides—Barry let out a loud "YES!" and pumped his fist in the air, much to the confusion of the rest of the class, and much to her own embarrassment.

But she couldn't help smiling with him, either.

She didn't bother double-checking the results after that.

* * *

After class, Barry had quickly gathered his things—lunch with his new block, he said—but not before reminding Caitlin at least three times to attend his meet that Thursday. When she assured him that she would show up, he gave her a beatific smile and took off.

She wanted to privately overthink the events that transpired that morning, but apparently that was too much to ask for, because once she exited the lab, Hartley fell in step with her. What was _up_ with him?

"So," he said, hands shoved into his pockets, "I was gone for one lab session, and suddenly you get yourself a boyfriend?"

"You're gone for one lab session, and suddenly you're interested in my life?" she said snidely. "Shove off, Hartley."

He shrugged, undeterred. "I wasn't even aware that you had a life. I'm sticking around to witness it while it lasts."

"There's nothing to witness. We're just lab partners."

"Oh, please. Spare me the denial." He rolled his eyes. "There's a betting pool, you know. Around 90% are betting that you'd turn him down."

Caitlin was a little taken aback at that. _She,_ turn _Barry Allen_ down? "What—who's the 10%?"

"Myself, of course. And it looks like I'll be collecting my winnings at the end of the month. Anyone with eyes can see that you're disgustingly smitten with him, God knows why."

"Well, 90% of the block doesn't seem to think so." She tried to hide how pleased she was that so far, everyone else seemed to think that she was more aloof than she really was. Hartley was a different matter altogether, though, and she didn't think she was ever going to convince him otherwise. "And since when did _you_ join block betting pools?"

"I was bored," he said. "And no one wanted to bet against the odds. They all think he's flirting with you and you're rebuffing him spectacularly like the ice queen you are. I decided to bet on you liking him, just because I enjoy beating the odds… Haven't you been to the foyer lately?"

The foyer was the place in the science complex where her blockmates hung out. Occasionally, other science majors dropped by, which was how Cisco knew her blockmates.

"Not really," she hedged. In fact, she hadn't been there at all, since she'd been a little preoccupied with her Barry Allen predicament.

"Busy going out on dates?"

"Hardly." She glared at him. "You know, Hartley, this isn't any of your business."

"Actually, it literally is, since I've invested $5 in you and I'm looking to gain $50 more." He adjusted the strap of his bag. "I'm intrigued, though. How does it feel like to be afflicted by such a banal, plebeian emotion?"

"I'm not afflicted by anything," Caitlin snapped, yanking the door before her more forcefully than she should have, "except, oh, I don't know, your _presence…"_

She paused at the exit when she heard someone calling her name, and both she and Hartley turned around to see Cisco jogging up to them, struggling with his bulky backpack and a plastic bag full of rolled-up A1 graphing paper. He was beaming so widely that, even without knowing why, Caitlin found herself smiling, as well.

"Guess WHAT!" he said, while still a few meters away from her, "Professor Stein wants me to display blueprints of my cryonic gun in the Science and Tech Exhibit this Friday! I mean, it's not yet done and I'm not even sure if I'll finish it on time— _Hartley?"_ Cisco's exuberance quickly dissipated into hostility. "What're you doing with him?"

"My sentiment, exactly," Caitlin said, and the same time that Hartley sneered, "A cryonic gun?" He moved to take one of the A1 rolls, but Cisco jerked it out of his reach with an indignant "Hey!".

Hartley contented himself with glaring at them from afar. "What're you using as a basis, a toy gun? You won't even know how to calculate the ballistic coefficient of ice—"

"Shut _up_ ," Cisco said tersely. "I've done all the calculations and I'm sure that it's theoretically possible to make one."

"Keyword being _theoretically,"_ Hartley scoffed, and then he began to build a case on why realistically speaking, it wasn't possible to make a cryonic gun. Hartley had always been unpleasant, but he wasn't as intolerable as he was when he'd happen on one of Cisco's pet projects.

Caitlin watched as Cisco's expression became more and more defensive, and, finally unable to take Cisco's increasing reticence, she told Hartley, " _You're_ not even going to be in the exhibit, so shove off."

Cisco hastily added, "Yeah, no professor's going to endorse you because none of them like you."

Hartley flinched. Caitlin seemed to have caught—was that _hurt?—_ in his expression, but he composed himself quickly. "Well, at least I don't kiss their asses," he retorted, before turning away. "This is pointless. I'm leaving."

"Yeah, finally!" Cisco called out. "Go be evil somewhere else!"

Caitlin watched Hartley's retreating figure, noting, with increasing disbelief, the miserable slump of his shoulders. She gave Cisco's distraught features a long, measured look, and as her friend discreetly checked one of his designs while muttering something about ballistic coefficients, a rather strange thought made its way to her mind.

Could it be possible that what she'd always taken as excessive hostility on Hartley's part towards Cisco was actually barely disguised longing?

The thought disconcerted her first of all because she would have never guessed it, as Hartley having feelings for someone other than himself was a difficult enough concept to wrap one's mind around—let alone have romantic feelings for _Cisco,_ whom he'd tormented since meeting him two years ago.

But the thought also disconcerted her because she now had an inkling on how Hartley was easily able to tell that she liked Barry Allen: He'd made a parallel between his hostility to Cisco and her sarcasm to Barry, and somehow concluded that they were both—to use Freudian terminology—reaction formations. She herself was only able to pick up on this because (and this made her very uncomfortable) she could recognise some of herself in Hartley.

And the fact that he, and no one else from her block, had picked up on her true feelings could only mean that by all appearances, she really looked like she was constantly rebuffing him—and if every other outsider thought that, she had to wonder if Barry himself also thought that. And she also had to wonder why she didn't _want_ him to think that.

She groaned. She'd started this day intent on hiding her feelings—not that she'd been too successful at it, but still—and now, halfway through the day, she was suddenly considering that maybe she shouldn't hide them so well…

She just didn't understand herself anymore.

She sighed and motioned to Cisco that they should probably get going. She helped him with a few of the A1 rolls that threatened to spill from the straining plastic bag, and as she did, she vaguely wondered if Jax was free. Maybe she should take up his offer on those "seduction" lessons…


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes:** Hey guys, sorry for the delay. I had this chapter ready a week ago, but I didn't like the way it turned out, so I rewrote it until I did. Anyway, thank you for reviewing! Special thanks to all the Guest reviewers, whom I couldn't message personally, and particularly to Maharlika and Lilili, who took the time to leave long ones! Also, to Lilili, I _love_ it when readers tell me what specific details they liked about a chapter! It's not redundant at all. In fact, it helps me plan out future ones better. :) All your reviews keep me writing, so thank you so much.

On another note, NO SPOILERS PLEASE! I haven't had time to watch the episode yet… *cries*

* * *

In the days leading up to the meet, Barry had called Caitlin approximately 3.5 times.

Their conversations ranged from five minutes long (his phone died in the middle of one conversation, so Caitlin counted that as 0.5) to three hours long, but their topics were surprisingly homogeneous, revolving mostly around the post-lab report and the upcoming oral exams.

Caitlin wasn't quite sure what to make of it. For one, she and Hartley had always talked about post-labs through chats that didn't even last ten minutes, and they'd _never_ called each other. So talking to her lab partner now for nearly _three hours,_ using the _phone_ , was… different, to say the least. And it felt almost intimate, somehow, even if they just mostly talked about homework.

But on the other hand, maybe it wasn't something new to _him._ After all, he couldget pretty talkative, so maybe the phone, as opposed to chat, was really his preferred medium of communication…

 _But_ then again, even if it was, was it really normal to spend _three hours_ talking about homework?

And besides that, there were a lot of moments that left Caitlin with that strange fluttering in her chest, moments that seemed to have too much romantic undertone to be considered merely platonic, and moments that seemed entirely too tender or serious to be considered his usual pseudo-flirting. It was also during those moments that she remembered her resolution to be nicer to him—although, admittedly, that was something she still had to work on.

Take, for example, the call on Monday night:

—

 **Day:** Monday  
 **Call No.:** 1 (This count does not yet include the two other calls he made prior to Monday.)  
 **Call Duration:** 8:07 p.m. – 10:43 p.m.

" _Hm, I still can't figure out which test of carbohydrates is most effective. It seems like they all exist for cross-reference, but assuming one only had one of the reagents on hand, which would be the most effective…?"_

" _We talked about that during the first hour, Caitlin. We're supposed to be moving on to proteins now."_

" _I know, but I still don't have an answer, and Google Scholar isn't proving to be helpful. Maybe we should request for an additional lab session to run through all the reagents again—"_

" _No, we don't need another lab session, we need a break. Let's talk about something else."_

" _Oh. Well, if you insist—"_

" _If I_ don't _insist, we'll never take a break. See how hard it is to be the fun one in this relationship—"_

" _Ten minutes."_

" _Hey! Twelve's our standard!"_

" _We went overtime awhile ago. Deal with it."_

" _Fiiine."_

" _Well? What did you want to talk about?"_

" _Wait, give me a few seconds to think of something…"_

" _You know, it might work in your favor to make a talking agenda, just so you don't waste time during these breaks you keep asking for."_

" _A talking agenda? Seriously?"_

" _Yes, a bulleted list of topics to—"_

" _I have a good idea of what that meant, you know. Well, I had one thing in mind, but I don't know how to bring it up. It's sort of weird."_

" _Really? When have you had any inhibitions about bringing something 'sort of weird' up with me?"_

"… _Are you actually… encouraging me to bring it up?"_

" _Well, you don't usually ask permission to talk about something that'll make me squirm."_

" _How can you tell that this'll make you squirm?"_

" _I can feel it. I've developed a sixth sense for it."_

" _Oooh, so like, your Barry senses are tingling—"_

" _God, don't put it that way—"_

"— _where, exactly, do I make you tingle?"_

"… _We should cut this break short."_

" _Hey! Stop abusing your power as timekeeper!"_

" _Someone has to be the responsible one."_

" _I'm also responsible. Responsible for making you smile."_

"… _Are you ever going to bring up that topic you don't want to bring up?"_

"Do _I make you smile?"_

"…"

" _That's the topic I wanted to bring up, by the way."_

" _Oh. Oh, alright. Well… Define… making me smile."_

" _Wait, let me translate it into your language…"_

" _We both speak English."_

" _No,_ I _speak English,_ you _speak science. Ah, got it! Does your… orbicularis oculi contract frequently when you're around me? …The orbicularis oculi_ is _the genuine-smile muscle, right?"_

" _Duchenne claims it's the muscle under the eye that differentiates a false smile from a genuine one, so yes, it is."_

" _So?"_

"… _I don't know how to answer that. Why do you ask, anyway?"_

" _Just curious. Or… Let me rephrase. Am I annoying?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Wow, that was fast. I'm kind of hurt."_

" _Over the phone, I can't tell if you're seriously hurt or not…"_

" _Do I at least make up for the annoyingness by making your orbicularis oculi contract often?"_

"… _Yes… I mean. Rationally speaking, I wouldn't persist in talking to you if you—if you didn't make up for being so annoying somehow."_

" _Oh."_

" _Does that… answer your question?"_

" _Yeah. Yeah, it does. My orbicularis oculi's contracting right now, actually… Er—just so you know."_

" _Oh… Alright. So… Shall we return to discussing the reagents for carbohydrate tests…?"_

" _Um… Okay. Sure."_

—

And then there was the brief call on Tuesday afternoon, which Caitlin reckoned was the first time she'd _really_ tried to be nice, and which made her so uncomfortable—being honest made her feel like she was stripping naked—that she was relieved at how mercifully short that call was.

 **Day:** Tuesday  
 **Call No.:** 1.5  
 **Call Duration:** 3:51 p.m. – 3:56 p.m.

" _Hello?"_

" _Caitlin!"_

" _Hey—are you alright? You sound a little out of breath."_

" _Yeah, I'm fine. Just… Just ran from my last lab class to the track field."_

" _Oh. Is there a reason for this call?"_

" _Er—none, really. I just—I don't know. I guess I just wanted to talk."_

"… _About the post-lab? Don't you have practice? It can wait until tonight—"_

" _No, it's not about post-lab. It's just… I had a rough lab class. It made me kind of miss you bossing me around."_

"… _I_ do not _boss you around. You agree to doing the things I suggest you to do."_

" _Because I have no choice. Ergo, it's called bossing me around."_

" _It's a democratic country, Barry. You always have a choice."_

" _It's your tyranny when it comes to lab, Caitlin."_

" _You have a weird way of pronouncing lab."_

" _Yeah, because it's also meant to sound like l-o-v-e."_

" _It's my tyranny in love? What's that supposed to mean?"_

" _I don't know, Caitlin. You tell me."_

"… _Is there a good reason why I'm wasting my time on you?"_

" _Because… I'm gorgeous? —Ah, crap, my battery's down to 1%. Quick, say something nice before my phone dies. Pleeease? I've had a rough day…"_

" _What the… Oh, whatever. Fine."_

" _Fine as in, you'll say something nice?"_

" _What else could I be referring to? Now stop talking, I can't think."_

" _Okay, okay. Stopping."_

" _Um… Okay. Here. You—you have very nice eyes. Genetically speaking. And somewhat aesthetically speaking, but mostly genetically speaking."_

" _I—ah, I do? Why, thank you, Caitlin. You know, I didn't expect you to_ actually _say something nice…"_

" _And you're—you're surprisingly good at making my orbicularis oculi contract."_

" _Oh. Er, thanks. I'm glad, because you're… um. You're really pretty when you smile."_

" _I—ah. Okay."_

"… _It's polite to thank someone for a compliment, you know."_

" _Well—flattery isn't—fine. Thank you."_

" _That's the most grudging 'thank you' I've ever heard."_

" _Well,_ your _'thank you' was the most hesitant I've ever heard, especially from you."_

" _Hey, it took awhile to sink in that you actually complimented me. Is there more from where that came from?"_

" _My supply of it has been permanently depleted."_

" _Aw, too bad… Maybe if you see my genetically pleasing eyes again, your supply will be magically replenished."_

" _Don't count on it. How is your phone not dead yet?"_

" _I don't know. Might've revived at the sound of your voice."_

"… _Sometimes you say the strangest things—"_

His phone had died at that point, and while Caitlin still felt uncomfortable about the whole exchange, she found herself hoping that she brightened his day, even just a little.

—

He then called her again that Tuesday night. After a much expected teasing remark about her complimenting his eyes, they'd launched into a discussion on finalizing the content of the report. But a few minutes into their conversation, Caitlin felt that there was something off about him—he'd just seemed less enthusiastic than usual, less quick to make a pun of some scientific term. Even his teasing at the beginning of their phone call had seemed almost half-hearted. She didn't know _how_ exactly she became sensitive to the timing and quality of his teasing, but she just inexplicably was. And, instead of spiraling into overthinking like she usually did, she found herself moved by concern for him instead.

 **Day:** Tuesday  
 **Call No.:** 2.5  
 **Call Duration:** 7:28 p.m. – 10:15 p.m.

" _Alright, that's enough. I think we need a break."_

"… _Really? That's a first."_

" _Barry, you sound exhausted."_

" _No, I'm not. Besides, didn't you say you wanted to get this out of the way already so we could start practicing for the orals?"_

" _I… Well, the report isn't due in six days, and we're already 70% done. And Dr. Wells hasn't even posted the sign-ups for the orals yet. I believe we're well ahead of schedule."_

" _But…"_

" _You said you've had a rough day, didn't you? You should rest."_

" _I… well, I can't seem to. I feel tired, but I'm too strung up to go to sleep. I mean, there's just so much to do, and I'm really starting to feel the pressure from everyone since the meet is in two days, and—God, I don't know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dump that on you, it's just—it's starting to get really stressful."_

" _Oh… I see. Well… you've just shifted into one of the harder science courses, so that's understandable… Hey, why are you laughing? —God, if it's because I said 'harder'—"_

" _Sorry! Sorry. It's not that, I swear. It's just,_ your _course is a freaking_ double honors _science course, and you seem to be breezing through everything, so… I can't imagine you having a hard time at all. I still can't believe you single-handedly finished our last lab report, by the way. And in less than two hours, too. I'm working on a report now for inorganic chemistry, and it's taking me_ days _to finish."_

" _Oh. To be fair, inorganic chemistry is one of the more challenging subjects."_

" _Challenging, huh? How long did it take you to finish a report in that class? Three hours instead of two?"_

"… _Two and a half, maybe…"_

"See."

" _No! No, it's not because I'm smarter or anything that I can finish reports faster. It's a personal practice of mine to do the bulk of the research for the post-lab while I'm reading up for the pre-lab, so I take days to finish my pre-lab. People usually accomplish that an hour before the class, right?"_

" _A day before, more like. You're just being modest."_

" _No, it's true. I do take a long time with pre-lab."_

" _But then Cisco once mentioned that you've finished at least half of the pre-labs already—"_

" _He was exaggerating. I've finished a fourth at most."_

" _Still. Jesus. Do you ever sleep?"_

" _Obviously. I get around four hours a night. Just the average amount of sleep any university student gets, I suppose."_

" _Are you kidding me? Four isn't average. I need at least six to function."_

" _Considering you're an athlete, you need at least seven to eight."_

" _Yeah, well… I used to get nine back in Interdisciplinary Studies. Good times."_

" _Oh… Then why did you shift, if I may ask?"_

" _I… uh, when my mom… When she passed away, I don't know, I just… I realized I wanted a career with more purpose. Sorry, it's…"_

" _No, I'm sorry. Don't feel obliged to talk about it. I'm really sorry for your loss—"_

" _Hey, it's not your fault. But thank you."_

"… _In any case, are you happy? In forensic science?"_

" _Oh, yeah. Definitely. I mean, my load doubled and I'm sleeping like half the amount of time I used to, but… I've always loved science, and I'm loving it even more now."_

" _Ah, I see. That's… wonderful. —Are you laughing again? What did I say this time?"_

" _You just sound really uncomfortable with having to sympathize with me."_

" _I do not."_

" _Yes you do, Caitlin."_

" _No—no, it's not like I'm uncomfortable with sympathizing with you, per se. I just have difficulty with finding the right words. I mean, 'That's great!' sounds banal, but any other adjective synonymous to 'great' sounds insincere."_

" _Yet you settled on 'That's wonderful' anyway."_

" _Yes. Well, the last one I used was 'That's glorious', but—"_

"Glorious? _Seriously?"_

" _Well, it_ does _sound more exuberant, doesn't it…? Oh, stop laughing already, will you?"_

" _Sorry, I just—it's just really cute."_

"Cute."

" _I mean, it's not in the word you use, Caitlin, it's in the delivery. If you don't sound genuinely happy when you say it, then no exuberant word'll sound exuberant enough."_

" _Well, I'm_ sorry _if my voice is too monotonous for you—"_

" _It's not monotonous. It just sounds… A little… reluctant. But don't worry about it, I understand that you were trying to be exuberant, so thank you. I actually feel better now, after talking to you about it. And after your attempts to comfort me."_

" _Well, I'm glad my feeble attempts at sympathy worked. Maybe you can go to sleep now?"_

" _Nah, I actually feel pumped to do more work now."_

" _Are you sure…?"_

" _Yeah. Lipids won't stand a chance. Unless you're tired…?"_

" _Me? Of course not."_

" _Really? Good. Because I prepared a talking agenda, and—"_

" _Oh, would you look at that? Twelve minutes is up."_

" _Hey—"_

" _I thought you were pumped to work."_

" _I am, but I still feel too tired to talk about lipids just yet…"_

" _Yet you're not too tired to talk about the things on the talking agenda."_

" _Nope."_

"Barry."

" _Fine, fine. Why do we always follow you, anyway…?"_

At that time, Caitlin just rolled her eyes, but she felt considerably better that he was back to teasing her. She thought it was incredibly ironic that she was annoyed by his teasing at least 90% of the time, but the moment he stopped teasing her, she'd suddenly miss it. And no, it wasn't something she liked to dwell on—not when she was enjoying another scientific debate with him, and especially not when she was relishing in the sound of his laughter over something she'd said. Who knew that she'd be able to make him laugh? Well, it was mostly unwitting on her part, but still. It was… nice. It was very nice.

—

By Wednesday night, she'd come to expect his calls, and had been unconsciously trying to finish what work she could before 7:30. Felicity was unbearably smug about it, and once she played Caitlin's ringtone on her own phone just to see Caitlin jump up from her seat and scurry to her bedside table, but when Caitlin threatened to prank-call Oliver and play turtle sex noises on full volume when he answered, while casually informing him that it was Felicity masturbating, Felicity had very quickly given up her own antics.

Barry—Felicity pointed out that Caitlin had stopped referring to him as 'Barry Allen', which she found particularly significant, but Caitlin supposed that she just got used to calling him by his first name over the phone, especially when she was exasperated with him—finally did call. But, instead of his usual greeting, there was a strange sound at the other end of the line, as if the phone was being slid along a surface. She heard a girl's faint voice saying, _"You're welcome, Barry,"_ and then a masculine voice that she immediately recognized as Barry's saying, _"Iris! This isn't funny! What did you—"_ And then the girl's voice again, even fainter this time so that Caitlin had to strain to hear, _"…Just answer it, you dork… Picked up already…"_

 **Day:** Wednesday  
 **Call No.:** 3.5  
 **Call Duration:** 7:31 p.m. – 9:11 p.m.

" _H…Hello?"_

" _Hi, Barry."_

" _Caitlin?"_

" _Yes, speaking."_

" _Uh… Hi, Caitlin."_

" _Yes, hi, Barry. We've exchanged the requisite phone greetings."_

" _Right, er, sorry. Uh, do you… Do you want to… uh, to…"_

" _To…?"_

" _Uh—um. Er."_

" _You're not usually this inarticulate. Is something wrong?"_

" _No, not really. I just have a best friend to kill, that's all."_

 _("Oh, don't be such a drama queen,"_ Caitlin heard Iris say. She seemed to be right beside him. _"Just ask—"_ And then a faint _"IRIS! God, go away! Why are you even here?"_ And then, _"Oh—OH. Eddie. Right. Gross, I wish I never asked. But can you, like, keep it down? Last time you guys woke the whole floor—hey, stop it…!")_

" _Hi, Caitlin."_

" _Iris…?"_

(Caitlin was blushing faintly. It was no secret that the dorm heads mostly turned a blind eye to people having… coitus… in the exclusive dorms, but it still made her squeamish.)

" _I heard the science majors are throwing a huge party soon. Can non-science-majors go?"_

" _Well, if you're with a science major, I don't see why not."_

" _Great. Will you be bringing anyone? Any non-science majors? Or friends? Or, you know, maybe a date…?"_

" _Dates aren't required, so I'm going with my friends, as usual."_

" _I see—"_

" _Hi, Caitlin."_ Barry seemed to have gotten his phone back. _"Sorry about that. Iris was just itching to go to a party this weekend because no one's been inviting her."_

( _"Why you—Bartholomew Allen, I swear—"_ Then there was some grumbling on Barry's end and the sound of a door opening and closing, so presumably he'd ushered her out of his room.)

" _She's welcome to join Helix. You can say she's with you."_

" _Nah, I don't feel like bringing her along. So… You're going?"_

 _"Yes."_

" _With… your friends?"_

" _Like I told Iris, yes. Why? Do you… want to join us?"_

" _I… Um. I—well, if you're going with your friends—I, um, I mean—I guess I'm going with my block."_

" _Oh, alright. What was it that you were trying to ask me?"_

" _Uh… Well… Do you… want to meet up… before my meet tomorrow?"_

" _Don't you need time to warm up?"_

" _It'll be quick. Just—just wanted to say hi to all my supporters and all that."_

" _Do you always coerce your so-called supporters into suffering your presence before the game?"_

" _No, just the ones I like_ _."_

(Caitlin's breath hitched in her throat—was he saying what she thought he was saying? What did 'like' even mean in this context? Was it mere preference, or did it refer to the exclusive and strong romantic attraction to another person? Was 'supporters' supposed to refer to a concrete group of people, or was it some weird synecdoche that referred to only her?

She took a calming breath and tried to still her trembling hands. No, it was too vague, she decided. It didn't mean anything—and it certainly couldn't mean what she wanted it to mean…)

" _Er—so—see you at the track field tomorrow? At four?"_

" _Uh, well. Okay."_

" _Okay."_

" _So… Well, since we've finished discussing for the post-lab, we should probably start outlining for orals."_

" _Uh, okay. Fantastic. You have the best ideas, Caitlin."_

" _O…kay. I'll just grab my notes."_

" _Sure."_

Before she left her phone on the table to rummage for her index cards, she thought she heard him say something like _"Oh my God, I'm an_ idiot _,"_ but an idiot for _what_ , she couldn't tell.

—

There was a concept in inferential statistics that Caitlin firmly believed in: it was called the null hypothesis. It referred to the default assumption that there was no significant relationship between two variables or groups. It was then the task of any good scientist to set precise criteria for rejecting the null hypothesis.

In this case, her null hypothesis was that Barry did not harbor any romantic feelings for her, and her precise criteria for rejecting that was that Barry himself, or any reliable secondary source such as Oliver or any friend of hers that had spoken directly to Barry, would say that he did. Any other piece of evidence—such as those moments in her phone conversations with him, moments when he said things like, _"You're really pretty when you smile"_ and _"No, just the ones I like"_ —wasn't strong enough to reject the null hypothesis.

In other words, she didn't want to make a big deal out of those phone calls. But the fact that she was _trying_ not to make a big deal out of them signified that they _were_ a big deal, or at least of _some_ deal, to her, and could possibly be interpreted in the direction of 'Maybe he does harbor romantic feelings for me.'

It confused Caitlin to no end, because in the first place, why did everything have to be guesswork when it came to romance? And in the second place, what was she going to do if he _did_ have romantic feelings for her? How would she react…?

No, but she was getting ahead of herself. There was a reason she'd recently established that null hypothesis—it would ground her when she started driving herself insane with overthinking.

So: Barry did not harbor romantic feelings for her.

There was a slight twinge in her chest when she turned the words over and over in her mind, but she ignored it, and held fast to her null hypothesis.

It was, after all, the safer assumption.

* * *

Caitlin had a break before meeting up with Barry at the track field, and she spent it bracing herself for meeting him. She thought she'd prepared adequately for it—she knew that talking with his disembodied voice for hours on end was one thing, while seeing him in the flesh was another story—but she had forgotten to take into account that talking to him up close, _while he was stretching in that bleeding track suit,_ was a completely different battle altogether.

Caitlin tried her very best to focus on a point in the distance—in this case, a crushed plastic cup a few feet behind him—but she was failing spectacularly. _H_ _onestly,_ did he have to keep _moving?_ Sure, he was warming up, but _still_. He should be doing this in some dark closet where no one could see him, and consequently where no one could have adverse bodily reactions to his flexing, such as blushing so hard she nearly looked like she was having a rash. Caitlin was also certain that if he did that stretch again where his trapezius and deltoids looked etched onto his back, she was going to have a nosebleed.

"…to go to the talk tomorrow?" he was saying.

Naturally, since she was expending most of her mental resources trying not to stare, she had very little left to process what he was saying. "Hm…?"

He smirked at her. He bleeding smirked at her, and then he slowly lifted an arm into the air to stretch his triceps. It wasn't as bad as The Back Stretch, but it was pretty damn distracting, too. "The Science and Tech Committee organized a series of talks for the entire month, and I have to have to attend at least one for extra credit in Anatomy. I want to attend the one tomorrow—it's _Special Topics in Immunology—_ but I don't really know anyone in my class, so… Do you… want to go with me?"

"Oh," Caitlin said, mildly surprised at his invitation. She vaguely remembered wanting to attend all the talks in that series, but there was a reason she'd felt uneasy about the one tomorrow in particular. She just couldn't remember what it was at the moment, not when Barry looked dangerously close to performing The Back Stretch again. "Well. I. Uh, okay."

"You know what that means, don't you?" he said, wagging his eyebrows.

"It means… We get to know more about… The… Immune system?"

"You don't say," he drawled. He leaned to the right to stretch his side. "It _means,_ Caitlin, that we'll be stuck together for a good two hours."

"You…" At this point, Barry reached to touch the ground, and Caitlin had to admire how flexible he was, because she was sure _she_ could barely even touch her knees. "…You say that like it's a good thing."

"Considering that I get to enjoy the two hours with you," he said, in a more subdued tone, "I'd say it is."

And then he gave her a sheepish smile.

She swore her heart skipped a beat.

His smile was even more damaging to her already frayed nerves than The Back Stretch. It was like one of those tender moments of his over the phone, when his fumbling sincerity disarmed her far more effectively than his innuendoes. The air had shifted between them, and Caitlin didn't know what to do about it—she could snap at him when he was making puns, but she just… _couldn't_ do that when he was like _this._

"Since your orbicularis oculi's contracting," she said, hesitantly, "I suppose you're sincere."

He paused mid-stretch. "Of course I'm sincere," he said. His brows furrowed in confusion. "Did you ever think I wasn't?"

"Well…" Caitlin said, avoiding the intensity of his gaze and running her teeth over her bottom lip. "I've just… always assumed that… you say most of the things you say to rile me up. And I've always assumed that… that's how you normally relate to other gir—people." She gave a half-hearted shrug. "It's not… insincerity, but…"

She made a vague, helpless gesture with her hand, unable to articulate _what_ exactly she thought it was.

He looked positively flummoxed. "Caitlin, I'm always sincere with you," he said, looking almost hurt. "I mean, sure, I love joking around with other people, but not… I mean, it's not like—"

The shrill sound of the whistle cut through the moment between them, and Barry let out a muttered curse. "I have to go," he said, doing one last, quick stretch with his legs. "Can I talk to you later? Please?"

Caitlin blinked. "Um, sure."

"Okay. See you."

"Barry—wait." Her hand had unwittingly reached out to grasp his arm before he could run back, and her touch had obviously startled them both—he turned around so quickly that he nearly tripped, and she drew her hand back as if she'd burned it, regretting that she'd said anything in the first place.

But he was looking at her with such intensity in his brilliant green eyes that before she could figure out why, she felt compelled to continue what she'd intended to say. "Good luck," she said, feeling incredibly lame. "I hope you win."

"Oh. Thanks." His smile was slow and warm. "It really means a lot to me that you're here."

"I'm not here by choice," she grumbled good-naturedly. "Just keeping my end of the deal."

"Don't worry, losing that deal will be worth your while," he said, adopting that tone of gentle teasing he'd been using around her, and tentatively reaching out to brush a sweaty tendril of hair from her face. She felt a blush suffusing her cheeks, wishing that he had brushed away a more picturesque-looking tendril of hair… But more than embarrassment, she felt so elated that she felt like she would combust. She probably would if she saw his smile, too, so she duly sought out the useless plastic cup instead of his eyes.

His hand returned to his side. "Will you at least try cheering for me?"

She scowled at the cup. "If you win, I'll consider it."

"Is that a deal?"

She shrugged and tried to appear nonchalant. "Perhaps one I'm willing to lose."

His eyebrows shot up, and then he laughed, shaking his head. "Caitlin Snow," he breathed, saying her name with a barely concealed affection that sent her toes curling. "You're really something else."

The whistle sounded again, more furiously this time, so that Barry had no choice but to jog to the field, but not without a backward glance and a sheepish smile in her direction.

She gave him a dazed smile back, and continued gazing at the plastic cup, while trying to recall the brush of his fingers against her cheek, the caress that her name had become on his lips. And then, feeling quite silly for standing there for so long, she'd quickly scurried up the bleachers to find a decent seat. Cisco wasn't able to make it—he needed all the time he had to work on the sketches—but Caitlin wasn't particularly bothered that she was watching his meet alone, not when Barry had just scanned the crowd for her face, and especially not when he'd smiled at her like she was the only person in the audience.

He'd won, of course.

And she'd cheered him on the whole time.

* * *

After the meet, Caitlin rushed back to her room to finish the work she could, and then she made her way to the tables in front of the library to meet him. The last days of summer were ending, and tonight, for the first time since the beginning of the term, the air was chilly enough that Caitlin had worn one of her thicker hoodies out.

He was a few minutes late—not that that was unexpected—looking tired but fresh from a shower that had his hair sticking up in clumps. When he approached her, smiling crookedly, she could still smell his aftershave. Caitlin thought that not even all the willpower in the world could prevent her from softening at the sight of him like this.

"Hey," he said, sliding into the bench in front of her, and self-consciously raking a hand through his hair.

"Hi." She gave him a small smile. "I believe congratulations are in order."

"Hm?" he said. He seemed distracted trying to fix his hair. After a few seconds of watching him do it, Caitlin absentmindedly reached out to smoothen down a clump he'd missed, and he immediately stilled to let her. The gesture felt so natural that neither of them felt inclined to remark on it.

"For winning," she said. "For completely demolishing the other runners by a full two seconds. I'd never seen two seconds look so slow."

He grinned. "Thanks. Guess it's because I got myself a new cheerleader."

She rolled her eyes. "I wonder who the unfortunate girl is."

"She didn't look so unfortunate when she was jumping up and down the stands."

"You don't know that," she replied lightly. "It takes a lot of effort to muster up nearly non-existent school spirit."

His smile softened. "Thanks, Caitlin. It means a lot."

She avoided his gaze. "You're welcome," she mumbled, before quickly adding, "So… Are we practicing for the orals?"

"Hey, that's not fair," he said. He flipped the index cards she'd whipped out face-down. "I still have ten minutes."

"You're not the one timing."

"Well, you aren't timing, either," he returned.

Caitlin bit her lip. "Touché."

He gave her a teasing smile. And then he rubbed the back of his neck—one of his nervous tells, she'd come to realize—and cleared his throat. "Look, about what you said awhile ago… About how you just assumed that I always tease you just to annoy you, and that I'm always like that with other people…"

"It's not insincerity," Caitlin amended quickly. She found that she couldn't look him in the eye again, and instead concentrated on the fabric of her well-worn hoodie, fiddling with the ribbed hem. "I don't doubt your sincerity. You don't need to explain yourself."

"No, wait, I do need to explain myself," he protested. "I mean, at first I did tease you the way I did—"

"—and still do, by the way."

He grinned briefly at her correction. "—because it was fun to watch you react. You're just so… different. It was nice to have someone shoot down my science jokes instead of lapping them up. Well, okay, not _really_ , because it'd be even nicer if you'd laughed at them once in awhile, but at least you were honest. And you take me seriously when I talk about science. And it's… It's really refreshing."

Caitlin bit her lip. Her head was spinning. All she seemed to glean from what he was saying was that she was _different_ _from other girls_ —even if he'd never said that part aloud—and it was making her feel giddy. But, no, she had to remember her null hypothesis—nothing but a direct confession from him could prove that he liked her. "I find it hard that you can't find like-minded people to talk about science with," she said instead.

"Well… I do, I guess. I have my new blockmates in forensic science, and they're pretty amazing, but… Sometimes, they just try too hard to make science cool, you know? Like… Patty—one of my blockmates—she comes up with all these science jokes with me, but then we can't talk about anything serious. They're like nerds who try too hard to be cool nerds."

"Are you saying that _I'm_ not a cool nerd?"

"Er—well—"

Caitlin laughed. "I'm kidding. It doesn't particularly bother me."

He gave her a sheepish smile. "For what it's worth, I think you're pretty cool when you start talking about reaction mechanisms."

She flushed. "Well," she said, "for what it's worth, your jokes _are_ occasionally funny. Sometimes I just don't give you the satisfaction of knowing that."

"I know," he grinned. "I keep track of the jokes that you don't find funny at all, and the ones that you pretend not to like but actually do, and the ones that actually make you laugh."

She blinked. "Oh. But… why?"

"Well, I like seeing you smile," he said, with such simple honesty that Caitlin just… _melted_. "I noticed that you don't smile much, and I thought it was a shame, since you're really pretty when you do."

Caitlin swallowed. She was going to rip the hem of her hoodie if she were going to stretch it any further. She tried to imagine that what he was telling her was something that could be said between friends, but somehow, she couldn't imagine telling _Cisco_ that he was pretty—or handsome, whatever—when he smiled, and so maybe… just _maybe_ … there really was something more between them. Maybe Barry _was_ flirting with her, in the most honest way possible—in the way that guys did with someone they really liked.

"…Caitlin?"

She released her lower lip from between her teeth and glanced at him. He seemed to be laughing. "What?"

"You _really_ don't know how to take compliments, do you?"

"I…" she frowned. "I'm just not used to them, that's all."

His brow furrowed. "Really?" And then he grinned. "Well, that's something I can rectify."

"Why?" she said, narrowing her eyes. "Just because you can make me squirm?"

"No, just because you deserve to hear them," he said. "And for what it's worth—I always mean every word."

Caitlin found herself speechless again. She swallowed and looked away. She had absolutely no idea what to do with him when he was like this. God, if she'd thought that he was charming back when he was making innuendoes, that was _nothing_ compared to him now… She suspected that, if he turned his full charm on her—or whatever it was he was doing to her—she wouldn't stand a chance.

And this terrified her.

So she coped the only way she could: She gathered the index cards in her hands, rapped them on the wooden table, and crisply announced that they should probably get to work.

* * *

Caitlin hadn't been with him for an hour when she'd abruptly announced that she was tired. She wasn't, of course, but she didn't think she could stand being around him when he was being so… _gentle_ with her, when he seemed determined to spoil her rotten with compliments that invariably made her lose all train of thought or splutter like she'd forgotten how to speak English.

So she left and made her way back to the dorms, and she proceeded to tackle the work she had to do with such fervour that one would think they were all due the next day. When she'd finally surfaced from practicing for the oral exams, her intense panic finally petering out into exhaustion, it was already two in the morning.

Caitlin sighed and buried her head in hands. She just felt so tired. She was tired of all these _feelings_ , of trying to figure Barry out, of trying not to get her hopes up, of worrying that she wasn't studying enough because she was spending too much time with Barry, of not being able to concentrate when she actually was studying because Barry was always lurking in her thoughts…

Keeping her grades up was more important than silly feelings over some boy, she thought, rubbing her tired eyes. She had a grade to maintain if she wanted to keep her scholarship, and if that didn't motivate her, the mere thought of her father's sneering disapproval—even if he wasn't around anymore—of her lapse in diligence was enough to make her work harder.

But sometimes, she had to admit, being with Barry was far more exciting than figuring out reaction mechanisms. Barry made her smile, and she didn't think she'd smiled as much as she did in the past week or so with him. He made her feel like she could be herself—not the science major with the near-4.0 GPA, not the girl with genius-level intellect.

She thought about her null hypothesis again. She thought about their phone calls, about everything he'd said to her just hours ago… And for once, she doubted that the evidence she had was insufficient to disprove her null hypothesis. And, in that moment of weakness, overcome as she was with exhaustion, she allowed a barely suppressed wave of longing to wash over her.

God help her, she was positively terrified of it, but she _really_ liked Barry. And she just… _really_ wanted him to like her back.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes:** Hi everyone! Well, this has been a long time coming. I wrote like four different versions of it until it finally turned out the way I wanted it to. Please bear with my erratic updates, and thank you so much for your response to the last chapter! I'm humbled by them. I really do hope you guys continue to enjoy this story.

* * *

"Hey Caitlin! Where are you?"

"I'm coming. Look to your right."

"Oh, there! I can see you! Come on, hurry up!"

"What? Why?" Caitlin squinted at the entrance of the lecture hall. She saw a few people emerge from the doors before taking their seats in front of the long tables, where various folders were neatly laid out, and Barry was waving at her from beside the _Special Topics in Immunology_ stand. "Barry, they've only started registration—"

"But the line's so long—"

"—and there are just, what, five people in front of you—"

"—and I'm bored! At least when I'm late, I won't have to get in line, and I won't have to get bored. Why do you walk so slow?"

"Why're you so restless?"

"I'm not restless," he said, even as he slipped out of the line and made his way towards her, still clutching his phone.

She arched a brow at him.

"…Okay, so maybe I'm sort of restless," he admitted sheepishly. "I just came from the forensic lab, and I can't stand my lab partner. Seriously. Julian's such a stickler for rules that it drives me crazy. Kinda like you, but like, a hundred times worse."

"That was vaguely insulting."

"Not at all. You know you're my favorite lab partner. We've already established that. And I love it when you boss me around. It's kind of annoying, but also kind of hot."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Still vaguely insulting, Barry."

"Alright, fine. It's really hot. Especially when you do that eyebrow thing and you have one hand on your hip and the other on the lab table—"

"I _really_ do not need to know this."

"See, this is why I have to be vaguely insulting. If I just complimented you straight out, you'd think I'm being insincere and brush it away—hey, look!" he said abruptly, face brightening. "We're near each other!"

"Yes, Barry, that's what walking to the same point does."

"It's weird. I can hear your real voice and your phone voice. Your phone voice is kind of delayed, though. Is my phone voice kind of delayed too?"

"Naturally. Sound travels faster through air than it does through a system. I'll hang up now—"

"No, wait," he said, coming to a stop, "wait, what sounds sexier, my phone voice or my real voice?"

Now Caitlin came to a stop. "What kind of question is that?"

"Please, Caitlin. I really need to know."

"For _what_?"

"You know how all DJs sound sexy on air? I was thinking maybe it has something to do with how their voices travel through the transmitter. So since you can compare my real voice and phone voice at the same time, which sounds sexier?"

She stared at him. "I don't understand," she said slowly. "Are you jealous of your phone voice?"

"So my phone voice is sexier?"

"What— _no_ —you sound the same either way, except when the signal's terrible—"

"The same meaning my real voice and phone voice are equally sexy?"

She glared at him. "This isn't really about the quality of voice over transmitters, is it?"

He grinned. "It depends on how you answer my question."

"You're a lot more appealing if you don't open your mouth."

"So I'm sexy if I don't talk?"

"That's not what I—"

"I'll shut up now so you can ogle me in peace."

She glared at him and clicked her phone off.

"Although I had a different kind of ogling in mind," he said, grinning and pocketing his phone. "You know, the more adoring kind, not the death-threat kind."

Sometimes Caitlin just wanted to _strangle_ him. Granted, other times she liked him quite a bit, but _still_ , those two didn't have to be mutually exclusive.

She brushed past him and headed towards the lecture hall, and undeterred, he didn't miss a beat falling in step beside her.

"By the way, you look really nice with your hair down," he said lightly. "Not that you don't look nice in a ponytail," he quickly amended, "but, well, you know. It's nice…r."

"Nice…r," she echoed. "Really, I was under the impression that you had a better vocabulary."

"Whoa, did you just… _fish_ for a compliment?"

She gaped at him. " _Fish?_ "

"And to think that until a few seconds ago compliments flustered you," he teased.

"I meant it to be _vaguely insulting_ ," she huffed. "Besides, 'nice' in general is too bland a word for anything. I mean, old ladies are nice. Fleece socks are nice, especially in winter. Petri dishes of _E. coli_ proliferating indefinitely would be nice, so I wouldn't have to worry about whether or not I have back-up cultures for…"

She trailed off after recognizing how ridiculous she was sounding. It seemed that whenever she was in Barry's vicinity she either had nothing to say or she was saying too much. Clearly she had deficient brain-mouth coordination where he was concerned.

Barry was looking at her with unconcealed amusement.

"I'm sorry if my adjective choice led you to think that I was comparing you to old ladies or fleece socks or proliferating _E. coli_ ," he said, nudging her. "What I meant to say was, you look absolutely beguiling today. It's fortunate for poor blokes like myself that you've decided to let your… luxuriant… _tresses_ down—"

Caitlin winced at his wording. "Alright, just _stop_. You've proven that you have a sizeable vocabulary. Congratulations."

"There's this other sizeable thing I have—"

She glared at him.

"Sorry," he said, grinning roguishly and not looking sorry in the least. And then, his features softening, he added, "But you're right. Nice was a lame word to use. You look really pretty."

Caitlin flushed. She suddenly found it very hard to swallow. In a fit of flustered desperation, she gestured to the lecture hall.

"Well," she floundered, "the line's really long now."

"The line? Oh, _that_ line. Right." He surreptitiously cleared his throat. He seemed to have realized that he'd been smiling at her for longer than was usual. Oh, God, could he have noticed her blushing?

…Wait, was _he_ blushing?

Caitlin gave him a sidelong glance, and her eyes widened fractionally in surprise.

She blinked again to make sure she wasn't imagining it, and true enough, there was still a very light pink on his cheeks. He _was_ blushing!

Wait, so if he was _also_ blushing, could it mean that _she_ affected him the same way he affected her? Come to think of it, there had been a few times when he seemed more flustered and inarticulate than usual—sometimes, even, when he was trying to fluster _her_. She'd registered those moments vaguely, but she just never thought of it in conjunction to her effect on him.

It was all speculation at this point—it was still too nebulous to disprove her null hypothesis—but she wondered how she could have missed it.

As he ambled over to one of the longer lines, she observed, "You don't seem as bothered by the line as you were a few minutes ago."

"I'm not," he conceded. He glanced at her quizzical look over his shoulder and smiled. "I think the reason's pretty obvious, Caitlin."

There it was again—that slight hesitation in his tone, the tentativeness of his smile, the deeper shade of pink crawling up his neck.

Caitlin was still at a loss of what to do, but she bit her lip to suppress a smile. She had a feeling this insight would be very useful in the future.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they were still in line.

"They're registering _manually_ _!_ _"_ Barry scowled, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "This is going to take _forever!_ _"_

"Don't be so dramatic," Caitlin said. "Someone ran out to borrow ID scanners. It'll take only a few minutes, and by then we'll already be at the front of the line—"

He gave her a look of disbelief, as if she'd said "a few hours" instead of "a few minutes." He seemed on the verge of complaining again, but then suddenly, his mouth lifted into a mischievous grin.

Oh, she did not like that look.

"Come on," he said, tugging at her arm, "let's go somewhere else."

"No."

"Come on, Caitlin. Live a little."

"I'm already very much alive, thank you."

"You're _alive_ , but you're not truly _living_. Ooh, _damn_ , that was a good line—"

"—speaking of lines, look, it's moving—"

"They still don't have ID scanners," he said, tugging at her arm again. "Besides, I think you'll like this place. It's near the Observatory, and I always go there to think. It's nice and quiet and I stumbled on it during one of my morning jogs—"

"Barry," she said, tugging fiercely at his sleeve, but he was much stronger than she was, and it didn't take much tugging for him to make her step out of the line. "You have to write a _paper_ on this lecture—"

"—and it's kinda chilly because of the wind but it's pleasant chilly, _plus_ you can see the whole campus from there—"

"—honestly, you have the attention span of a goldfish—"

"—a _goldfish_? Can't I be a cooler animal, like a cheetah—"

"—see what I mean? A goldfish is perfectly apt—"

"—I bet cheetahs also hate waiting—"

"—and for the record, cheetahs are actually patient hunters—"

"—but I bet they wouldn't be if they had to wait in line behind other cheetahs for the next gazelle—"

She tugged his arm more forcefully now. " _Barry._ _"_

They paused at one of the exits of the science complex, the one nearest to the small greenhouse of the botany students. He grinned at her, his hand still on her arm. "Yes, Caitlin?"

"The lecture's probably starting already."

"We can go to the one next week instead. And to the one after next week. When they have functional ID scanners. And shorter lines."

She realized that this meant she got to go to the next two lectures with him, but she cautioned herself that it was too soon to hope. "But you said that this was the only lecture with extra credits in Anatomy."

He waved a hand. "I think I'm already pretty good at Anatomy, anyway."

She arched a brow at him.

"Oh, don't give me that look," he said. "Here, I'll prove it to you."

She narrowed her eyes, expecting him to say something lewd, but instead he lifted her left hand with his right hand, and held hers palm-up between them.

His gesture was so unexpected that she stilled.

Dimly, she figured that she should probably pull away, but the moment when it was appropriate to pull away had passed.

His fingers grazed the tips of hers before curling around them. They were warm on her skin.

He was touching her.

He was _holding her hand._

Caitlin felt very aware of her own body, and how all sensation seemed to concentrate on the nerve endings in her hands. She was in the thrall of his touch.

His thumb ran over the tips of her fingers.

"Phalanges," he said lightly.

 _Phalan—oh._

Oh.

His fingers moved down to trace the lines of bones at the back of her palm.

"Metacarpals."

He was naming the bones on her hand.

Her cheeks flamed. She was painfully hyperaware of his exploring fingers. It was like he was leaving a trail of fire in the wake of his touch.

He turned her hand over again and moved to the base of her palm, and ran his thumb across the pale skin there.

"Hamate, capitate, trapezoid, trapezium."

His thumb skimmed the top of her wrist.

"Triquetral, lunate, pisiform."

He glanced up at her and gave her a half-smile. "See?" he said. Her hand was still resting on his palm. "Just learned that today in class, and I've already got it all down to pat."

She blinked at him.

"Not quite," she said, more out of reflex than out of a conscious decision to speak. She bit her lip, surprised that she could even produce sound, what with her airways so terribly constricted, but she supposed that she couldn't resist correcting something. He was looking at her expectantly, so she took a much-needed breath to steel herself and moved to place her hand under his.

With her thumb, she touched the bone near his pulse point. She might have been imagining it, but the frantic thrumming under his skin seemed to match her own unsteady heartbeat.

"You forgot the scaphoid," she said.

His eyebrows shot up, and that signature sheepish grin of his was spreading across his face. "Damn. Nine out of ten. By your standards that's probably a failing mark."

"True," she conceded with a shrug. "But I can make an exception."

He let out a snort of laughter, and then regarded her with his bright green eyes. He slowly brought up his left hand to trace the delicate skin under her eye—her contracting orbicularis oculi, she realized belatedly—and the pad of his thumb was rough against it.

She took a shaky breath. He was so _warm_ , and she had the sudden urge to turn her face to his hand and close her eyes, but she resisted it valiantly and trained her gaze on him.

His smile softened. "I'm glad I'm the exception."

It was even more difficult to breathe now. They were treading a minefield here—her hand was still resting on his, and he was still standing so close that if Caitlin looked up and stretched on her tiptoes, her lips would have touched his—and she didn't even want to dwell on how she came to replace actual measurements for distance with how easily she could possibly come into contact with his lips.

She needed to stop this—whatever it was—before she inadvertently stepped on a mine.

Caitlin looked away from him. "Don't let it get to your head."

"Can I let it get to my heart instead?"

She pulled her hand away. "Barry," she said, "we really should be going back."

A flicker of bewilderment crossed his expression, and he slowly tucked his hand into his pocket. Oddly enough, the moment that he did, Caitlin felt like the whole incident—the whole naming her bones in the guise of holding her hand—had never happened, and that they were probably not going to talk about it.

"There's really nothing I can do to convince you?"

"Well, the lecture's already starting…"

He shook his head and gave her a half-hearted smile.

"Alright, if you say so." He turned back to the direction they came from. "Let's go back."

"Really?"

He looked mildly puzzled. "Yeah?"

Caitlin blinked. She didn't expect him to give up easily—or rather, she didn't expect him to give up at _all_. Granted, he did usually give in to her, but he'd whine and complain and tease her while giving in. He never gave up sounding this resigned.

She pursed her lips in thought. What if he wanted to go somewhere else not because he was being annoying as usual, but because he was exhausted? If this place was a place he went to think, it was likely that it was also where he went to take a break, and right now he did sound like he needed one…

She sighed. The things she did around this boy.

She abruptly faced the direction opposite the lecture hall and tugged his arm. "Let's go."

"The lecture hall's—"

"I'm not particularly interested in this lecture series anymore," she clipped. "I prefer the one next week on _Frontiers in Bioengineering_."

He gave her an incredulous look. "I don't want you to feel like I've been dragging you around—"

"If you haven't noticed, I'm doing the dragging now," she said. From all her tugging—he was incredibly difficult to budge—her hand had slipped down to grasp his fingers. It was all well and good, since his skin possessed better traction than the slippery sleeve of his jacket (or so she told herself).

His incredulity melted into a smile, and he tugged her hand so she'd stop walking. "Well, in that case," he said, "you're dragging us in the wrong direction."

She blinked. "Oh," she said. "Fine. Lead the way, then."

He was smiling again. "You're awfully cute when you're trying to be nice, you know," he said, hand tightening around hers.

" _Don't_ call me cute. It's condescending. And I wasn't being nice."

He grinned. "Don't worry, Caitlin. Your secret's safe with me."

* * *

"Barry, where exactly are you taking me?" Caitlin said—or wheezed, much to her embarrassment. "And why does it already look like we're miles away from civilization?"

Barry glanced back at her, and since he was a few meters higher up the slope than she was, the look he gave her seemed both amused and condescending. The _nerve_ —she'd practically given in to all his whims out of the goodness of her heart and now here he was, gloating over her suffering. "A forest right behind the observatory is hardly miles away from civilization, Caitlin," he smirked. "Don't tell me you've never explored this place before."

"No," Caitlin said shortly. She leaned against a nearby tree to catch her breath, and Barry promptly paused to wait for her, adjusting the strap of her backpack on his shoulder and his hold on his varsity bag. She glared at him. How was he still breathing normally? Caitlin felt like her lungs were on fire, and she wasn't even carrying anything. "Is there anything about my pasty complexion and conspicuous lack of muscle mass that suggest I enjoy hiking through forests?"

Barry laughed. "No need to be so snappy," he said genially. He jogged back to where she was, still looking fresh and energized, while Caitlin felt like she'd run a marathon. Well, not really—she'd never ran a marathon before. Not unless it was a _Friends_ marathon, which was a different kind of marathon altogether. "Come on, we're almost there."

"I can't believe you dragged me into this," she muttered.

He began walking alongside her now, matching her pace. He'd been doing a lot of that over their hike up the slope—wandering a few meters ahead of her and teasing her for being slow, and then rounding back to walk beside her. She would've been found it considerate if he weren't also deliberately showing off. As if she needed to be reminded of how fit he was.

"If I remember correctly, _you_ dragged me into this."

"If I remember correctly, I was about to drag us in the direction of the library, where there's an air-conditioner and an elevator and nice, un-rocky flooring."

"Fair enough," he said, his eyes still bright with laughter. "It's not too late for us to turn around."

"I'll shove you down that incline if you dragged me all the way up here for nothing."

"I'd like to see you try."

She glared at him. "Oh, I _will_ —"

But before she could get her hands on him, he'd swiveled out of her reach with an ease that she could only dream of having. He crossed his arms and grinned down at her. "Is that the best you can do?"

She glared at him. She was sweaty, and she felt grimy and clumsy and unattractive, and he was just so painfully graceful and athletic and so bleeding _attractive_ in comparison that it was putting her in a terrible mood. "You should try staying still for five seconds."

"No thanks."

"Barry."

His lips quirk up in amusement. "That tone won't work on me, Caitlin."

"What tone?"

He shrugged. "The one you use when you want me to shut up and give in to you. You always use it when you're ma—oof!"

While he'd been talking, Caitlin had inched her way up the distance between them, and she'd given him a light push—but when she'd launched at him, she tripped and ended up hurling her entire weight on him.

She squeaked and shut her eyes and braced herself for the impact of the fall.

When it seemed like she didn't hit the hard ground, Caitlin slowly reopened her eyes and propped herself on her arm, only to realize that she was leaning on a very warm, very muscular chest.

 _Oh_ Lord.

"Are you okay?" he said. She was still leaning on his chest, and he was looking at her so worriedly that one would've thought _she_ _'_ _d_ taken the brunt of the fall. It irked her to no end that even Barry's upper body was so perfectly toned when he only really needed his legs for running.

A fierce blush crept up her cheeks, and she tried to move but found that she couldn't, not with her waist in the vice-grip of Barry's arm.

"Don't be ridiculous, I wasn't—your arm!" Caitlin gasped, alarmed. She shoved his bag aside and lifted his arm up slowly to check for injury. "Does it hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," he said. He stretched it gingerly. "It's just a little sore, that's all. My back is, too, but I've had worse. It's all good."

"Are you sure?" Caitlin stretched his arm, and when he didn't make any sounds of protest, she rested it by his side again. "Wait, let me get up—I'll need to check your back—"

"Oh, no you don't," he said, tightening his grip around her. "I can't believe you really tried to push me down the slope."

She tried to use his chest as leverage to pull herself free, but he was pretty strong, and his chest was proving to be more distracting than it was useful leverage, so she placed her hands on the grass instead and scowled.

" _Up_ the slope," she clarified. "I wasn't trying to kill you, no matter how annoying you were being."

"You still pushed me. We could've fallen onto a rock or something."

"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry," she said, attempting to wriggle free again. "Next time I'll make sure that the terrain is suitable for shoving infuriating people down onto, without causing life-threatening injuries—"

"—wait, Caitlin, can you just—can you stop— _stop_ _moving_ —"

"—so I'd appreciate it if you let me go, because this is unsuitable terrain and you could've sustained life-threatening injuries, and I need to make sure I'm not guilty of involuntary manslaughter—"

Barry made an abrupt movement, and Caitlin let out an undignified squeak when she suddenly found herself on the ground and Barry on top of her. "See?" he said. He tried to sound smug, but he was extremely flushed, and he was breathing heavily. "I'm perfectly fine."

She was about to say something snarky in return, but it died on her tongue when she saw the look he was giving her. His pupils were dilated, and his normally bright green eyes had turned a shade darker. She could feel the strong muscles of his arm around the small of her back, and his legs straddled her on either side of her hips.

She bit her bottom lip hard in an attempt to bring herself back to reality, but then Barry followed the movement of her lips with his eyes and let out a soft, strangled noise.

He only needed to move his head slightly for his lips to land on the shell of her ear. He whispered her name in a low growl that was nearly inaudible, and his breath was hot on her skin.

There was a coil of heat in her belly, wound tight and ready to combust. She fisted her hands in the grass in an attempt to control herself and she shut her eyes.

His nose skimmed the line of her jaw, a touch so light she might have imagined it.

It was so hot, and she couldn't breathe. Or she didn't dare to. She didn't understand this feeling. She wasn't even in control of her own body anymore. All she knew was that she _wanted_ this nearness, this heat; she wanted to tilt her face to his and just— _just_ …

Suddenly there was a loud rustling all around them.

Barry blinked, looking as if he'd come to his senses, and then abruptly scrambled away, startled.

Caitlin's heart was still beating wildly against her ribcage, and she was sure that the redness in her cheeks hadn't yet receded. She touched a hand to her temple, feeling flushed and disoriented and confused.

"So…" Barry said, awkwardly clearing his throat. He'd shuffled to his feet, pulled his shirt down quickly over the front of his jeans, and hefted their bags over his shoulder. When she glanced at him she saw a deep shade of red crawling up his neck. "Do you, uh, need help standing up?"

He held out his hand.

She blinked at it.

"No thanks," she said slowly.

The wind rustled around them.

She thought about how ridiculous it was that something like the wind could startle them so easily.

But then again, had they not sprang apart like they had, what would have happened instead? For a moment there she was sure that Barry— _Barry Allen_ —was about to kiss her, and she was about to _let_ him. Either that, or all the suffocating heat she'd experienced just moments ago had gotten to her head, and she'd somehow conjured up a very elaborate hallucination.

But, alright, assuming it wasn't an elaborate, heat-induced hallucination, how were they ever going to deal with the repercussions of something as unambiguously romantic as a kiss? Unless they both mutually agreed that Barry had slipped and landed on her lips, a confession would inevitably follow. And he would either say he liked her back, or he was just… what? Kissing girls in the woods for sport?

She frowned. That didn't quite add up. She'd been so focused on receiving some form of confession from him that she never considered what, exactly, happened _after_ the confession.

She could feel a headache coming on. She didn't have enough functioning brain cells to think about this right now.

"Okay," he said lamely, letting his hand fall back to his side. "Not that I'm implying you're helpless or anything," he added as an afterthought, as she stood and dusted the back of her jeans. "It was just, you know, kind of a gentlemanly reflex, and I, uh, wanted to make sure you didn't injure your, uh, scaphoid or anything."

"My scaphoid," she echoed. "You were going to check an injury at my scaphoid by pulling me up by my wrist, which is essentially where my scaphoid is."

"Um," he said. "Maybe you injured it while shoving me… or… something."

She arched a brow at him. "You're still not bitter about me shoving you, are you?"

At her question, the tension seemed leave his shoulders, and he shook his head. "No, I'm not." He flashed her a grin. "You were only probably finding an excuse to grope my chest."

Caitlin spluttered. Damn it, how could he recover so quickly? _This_ Barry wasn't supposed to make an appearance!

"As if there's anything remotely _gropable_ about your chest—"

" _Gropable?_ Tell me, Caitlin, how would I meet your standards of gropability?"

"If I did have standards for that, which I don't, you'd be the standard for ungropability—"

"I'm wounded, I really am, right here in the center of my _extremely gropable chest_ —quick, Caitlin, put your hand over it to stop the bleeding—"

"You're being ridiculous—"

"Ah, another fatal wound! Now you have to put _two_ hands on my _extremely gropable chest_ —"

They bickered the rest of the way up the peak. Neither of them spoke about the Incident on the Slope for the rest of their time together that day, just as they did not speak about the bone-naming and dragging around campus as a shoddy guise for hand-holding. Everything was yet too new and too fragile, and they both felt that to speak about these small, new intimacies was to lose each other.

Caitlin, especially, couldn't bring herself to obsessively rehash anything just yet, let alone talk about it. It would stay there in the back of her mind, niggling at her consciousness, never fully surfacing. But she did feel something else surface, as Barry continued to alternately tease her and help her up the slope with a hand on her arm or a grip on her hand: She felt… _happy_. It wasn't the placid kind of happiness that ran throughout her body like a stream; it was a happiness that came in bursts, like a geyser—the kind of happiness that was difficult to contain, so that intermittently it shot tingles to her fingertips, crept into her smile, made her heart jump like it was going to fly out of her chest.

There would be another time for her overthinking. Maybe for once, she would just savor the feeling while it lasted.

* * *

The view they had when they reached the top lived up to the hype Barry made about it. It was breathtaking. Caitlin could see the entire campus from there, and she could see the lights from the stores and restaurants of the university town flickering to life. All around them they could hear the sounds that were audible only in still silence—the leaves rustling, different birds chirping, the wind whistling. Far off in the distance, they could see the sun inching down the horizon.

Barry was sprawled on his back on the dry grass, and she was seated down beside him, her back against a tree. For perhaps the first time in the past two weeks, she felt completely at ease being near him. Her body was more relaxed, and her mind wasn't constantly abuzz with its usual self-conscious monologue. It was probably the effect of the place. It seemed like the stillness here had crept under her skin, seeped into her bones.

They watched the sun and the patterns of color in the sky in companionable silence.

After a few moments, Barry spoke. His tone was subdued, as if he understood that to raise his voice a decibel louder was to shatter the peace.

"Hey, Caitlin," he said, "what's your full name?"

It was another of his random questions. Normally it would've set her on edge, but right now she'd been lulled into such a peaceful state of mind that none of her usual fight-or-flight responses were triggered. She wasn't even overthinking anymore. She was always overthinking, anyway, so skipping it this time wouldn't hurt.

"Caitlin Tannhauser Snow," she said.

"You don't have a second name?"

"None."

"Man, you're lucky. Must've been a breeze to learn your name."

She snorted. "Unlike Bartholomew, I imagine."

"Bartholomew _Henry_. It was a nightmare," he laughed. "Where did you grow up?"

"Keystone. You?"

"Here, in Central. Been here my whole life. Blood type?"

She arched a brow at him. "I should just give you my biodata."

He grinned, unapologetic. "But it's more fun this way. Blood type?"

She sighed. "AB positive."

"Nice. I'm an O positive. Which means if you ever need a blood transfusion, I can donate blood to you."

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied dryly.

"And you can donate plasma to me," he added. "Won't you? Will you donate plasma to me if I really needed it?"

"I don't think I would leave you to die."

"Great. Henceforth, we shall be blood buddies. Isn't that great? Say you'll be my blood buddy."

"What? No."

"Please, Caitlin. Say it. Give me this one acknowledgement of our friendship."

"We don't need a blood pact to be friends."

"It's not a blood pact. Blood pacts are so stone age. Blood buddies are the way to go."

"…You're very strange, you know that?"

"And you're very amused right now."

"I am not."

He gave her an incredulous look and sat up. She could see the playful challenge in his eyes. "Yes you are. You have these tells. You'll roll your eyes a bit, and then you bite your bottom lip to keep yourself from smiling, and then you'll put on this half-smile instead since you won't let the full smile out. See, there's that half-smile again. You're way amused."

"Do you always watch everyone this closely?"

"I—uh—well, you're amused a lot around me, so. You know. I notice it. I mean, I'm pretty good at it, being a noticer."

"…A _noticer_."

"Yu _p_ ," he said, popping his _p._ He then turned away from her to lie back down on the ground. "So, what do your parents do?"

She was still mildly puzzled by the exchange, but again, she didn't think much of it. "My mother's a nematologist."

"A nematologist?" he perked up. "As in, someone who studies parasitic worms for a living?"

"Yes."

"Whoa. I don't know if that's gross or cool."

"Mostly gross. Imagine growing up with preserved roundworms in jars lying around the kitchen."

"You're serious?"

"Mm-hmm. She was always a bit absent-minded around the house, but she's absolutely brilliant at what she does. She's practically the figurehead for worms. I mean, regardless if you were studying roundworms or earthworms, you couldn't _not_ know about her."

Caitlin didn't know what possessed her to say all these things—she'd always thought of herself as a private person—but there was something about the place, something about _Barry_ at that moment, that made her feel like she could talk about anything.

"She likes the attention," she added after a slight pause, "but she never stops working. She reads all these new articles on nematodes for breakfast, writes her lectures over lunch, and drafts her research papers from dinner to after midnight. She's awfully dedicated to her career."

"Wow. That's insane. Now I know where you get your work ethic."

Caitlin scoffed. "Not really. Sometimes she just works at mealtimes because she spends the rest of her time watching YouTube videos. It's terribly inefficient. I made her timetables, but she never used them."

He laughed. "So you got your work ethic from her lack of work ethic."

"That's one way to put it," she said. She rested her head on the trunk of the tree. "I learned about real work ethic from my father, though. He was a lawyer. He was the one who gave me the timetables." She paused. "I was around ten."

"No way. I don't think I was even _aware_ of time at ten. All I knew was meal time, snack time, and bed time. And the time that Pokémon airs on TV."

She smiled at the memory. "Me too. My father taught me to put those down in my timetable, even watching Pokémon and going to a friend's house."

He whistled. "That is ruthless."

"Just strict," she said. "And very efficient. I wouldn't be surprised if he started the whole time management craze. He was the epitome of time management."

Barry turned to look at her, a tentative question in his eyes. "Was?"

She stiffened imperceptibly and looked away. "He died years ago. Multiple sclerosis."

"Oh my god." He sat up, reaching to touch her arm. "I'm so sorry—"

"It's alright. You didn't know. There's no need for apology."

"Crap, the lecture series today had MS as a subtopic—"

"Barry, stop. No apologies. Please." She squeezed the hand on her arm to emphasize her point. "I've read the outline for the lecture and there's nothing new. MS is still chronic, and painful, and incurable."

His eyes turned sad. "That must have been hard."

A flurry of memories flitted into her mind's eye. Her mother crying over the phone one day. Visiting her father in the hospital, seeing him for the first time since he remarried. Watching him struggle to stand and walk each time she visited, watching him prove to her—but more to himself—that he was still fine. Sitting through all his mood swings, trying to make herself small so he wouldn't take it out on her. Bearing the moments when he'd forget little things, like the day of the week, or big things, like her name. Touching his hands, cold and stiffly folded across his body in the casket. Staring at the yawning furnace that would turn him into ash…

Caitlin looked at her hands. "It was terrible. But it's been years, so… it doesn't haunt anymore. Not as frequently, anyway. And not so painfully."

He leaned back against the tree trunk, his shoulders touching hers. "I understand," he said. "Uh, if you need someone to talk to, I'm just a call away. I mean, I know not everyone's experience of losing someone is the same, but I guess there are things that're universal, so…"

Caitlin glanced at him. "You lost someone, too."

"Yeah. My Mom." He closed his eyes. "She died a year and three months ago." He paused. "The entire thing was so senseless. It was the start of summer break, so I was out celebrating with my track buddies, and Dad was working late. He was usually home before dinner, but he had some emergency to take care of, so Mom was home alone. She never locked the doors, because we've lived in that neighborhood our whole lives, you know, and it was a good neighborhood. No one locked their doors because nothing ever happened."

He swallowed, and instinctively, Caitlin moved to touch his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"And then, there was this… college kid who came stumbling into our house. He was really high and out of his mind. He was having these… paranoid delusions. He thought my mom was conspiring with the people out to get him. When my mom reached for her phone, he lunged at her with a kitchen knife and stabbed her. Nine times." He turned her hand over in his, tracing her fingers. "Nine times. Can you imagine?"

"That's terrible," she said, hating how hollow the words sounded. She didn't know what else to say in the face of such naked anguish.

"She could've survived one, or maybe two or three, but not nine." He pressed his lips together. "Joe heard all the commotion, and he was able to call an ambulance, but she was dead before she reached the hospital. And in the meantime, I was out partying. Couldn't hear anything above the noise. I missed Joe's call. I missed _her_ call. Her last words to me went right to voicemail. Just, _Barry, I love you. I love you so much._ " He swallowed and closed his eyes. "Her voice was all cracked and desperate. Like she was crying."

He was quiet for a few more moments, lost his grief, and Caitlin stayed beside him in silence, letting him hold her hand.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, looking up at her. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you. We were talking about your dad…"

"No, I really didn't have anything more to say," she said. "And I understand. It's only been a year since your mom died. It's still fresh."

"Not fresh enough," he murmured. "Sometimes I feel like I'm forgetting her already. I mean, I know it's supposed to get better with time, but doesn't it get better because you remember less?"

He paused, silent for a moment as he traced the jagged lines of her palm.

"Like right after… it all happened, _everything_ hurt. All the time. When I remembered her, I felt surrounded by the memory. Like watching a movie I couldn't get out of. Her smile. Her voice. Her favorite floral blouse. The way she called me _Slugger_ on normal days, _Barry_ when she wanted me to do something for her, and _Bartholomew Henry_ when she was going to give me a real whipping. Verbally, of course." He smiled briefly. "And then, eventually, the memories become fuzzier around the edges. Shorter. Not a movie anymore, just faded pictures. Like the ones in your wallet. You put a picture there so you'll always see the people you love the most, but after a while you forget it's even there. And when you look at it and really _see_ it again, it's already yellowed and faded, and there's a crease over her eyes and her smile, and the color of her hair's this dull brown instead of deep red, and the edges become this soft, brittle fuzz. Does that make sense?"

"It does," she agreed. "It's a very poetic way of describing it." She saw his budding smile and added, "Don't let it get to your head."

His grin was a full one now. "I don't get it. You're insulting me but you're making me feel better. How is that possible?"

"Maybe you're a masochist. It's the only plausible reason you've tolerated my company for this long."

"Why I _enjoy_ your company," he corrected. "It's not so bad. It's like being with a cactus and holding on to the non-prickly parts."

"Normally, people don't hold onto cacti in the first place. And how am I a cactus while you still get to be a human being?"

"Well, you're pretty cactus-y, and I'm pretty human-y."

She arched a brow at him.

" _Point is,_ I liked the idea. It doesn't have to hold up to logical scrutiny."

"What a cop-out answer. But fine. I'll let you off the hook this time."

"Thanks. I'll make you the human being in my next metaphor."

"I think I've had enough of your metaphors," she said dryly. "Anyway, you were talking about memory?"

He gave her another smile before turning his face to the sun. Only a tiny sliver of it was left on the horizon. "Yeah. Uh, well, I think time heals all wounds because it makes us forget better. I mean, not all the time. Sometimes there are these moments when I remember my mom so sharply it hurts. And how… how those nine stab wounds looked like. But for the most part… I don't think of her so much anymore."

"And when you remember that you haven't thought about her in a while, you feel guilty," she said. "You feel like you've done something wrong."

"Yeah, exactly," he said. "Time heals by making you forget, but guilt's there to make sure you never forget completely."

"And to remind you that to be a good son or daughter, you must remember. It's the last tie that binds us to our family, this obligation of remembering. Or maybe _re_ -membering…"

"That makes sense. Since they're not there anymore, physically, you try to put your memories of them together, over and over again…"

"…to approximate their presence," she finished. "No matter how incompletely."

"It's not a bad obligation."

"It's neither good nor bad. It just is."

"I watched this series recently called Westworld," he said. "The characters who've lost someone, they always say that they don't want to forget their pain, because pain is all they have left of the ones they've lost."

"Part of remembering," she mused. "Somehow, paradoxically, they're physically present again if you feel the pain of their absence. So sometimes you want that pain. Memories are sharper when you're in pain."

"Yeah. That's true."

He gave her a look she couldn't place, and then he turned back to the horizon and smiled.

"We're totally blood buddies."

She wrinkled her brow. "What does that even mean?"

"Doesn't have to mean anything," he said, grinning now. "It simply is. Hey, come on. Don't shoot it down. It amuses you."

"It does. Sounds awfully morbid though."

"Really? I think it's kind of cute. It could be a band name."

"Doesn't sound like a chart-topping name to me."

"What! I'm offended. Charts are not topped by name alone, but by talent and hard work."

"Unfortunately we have neither."

"Pfff. We totally do. You're hard work, and I'm talent."

"You, talent?"

"Yuh. Excuse me, I have a quote pretty sexy baritone unquote, if I may say so myself."

"You're not saying so yourself, which is why you're quoting someone in the first place. _Who_ , exactly, are you quoting?"

"…Anonymous."

"Which is basically code for nobody."

"You wound me."

"I'm always wounding you, being the quote cactus with some non-prickly parts unquote."

He grinned. "You are _so_ into my metaphors."

"I am not."

"You so are. We've already been through this. You have that half-smile on again."

She pressed her lips together to vanish the half-smile and looked away. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Observing me. Being a noticer. Whatever it is you're doing."

"Why?" he said, crouching so that he could peer up at her. "Does it embarrass you? Hey, Caitlin, please look at me."

"I clearly don't want to, so don't ask."

"I can't _not_ notice," he confessed, his tone subdued. "But if it makes you uncomfortable, I won't point it out anymore. I swear." He gently placed a finger under her chin. "Please look at me?"

Her face was burning. She couldn't look at him _now—_ she would give too much away. She was already giving too much away with her discomfort. "Let's go back. It's almost dark."

"Hey," he said, tugging on her hand, "are you mad?"

"No."

"Can you smile to indicate you're not mad?"

"I don't smile on command."

"How about on a request?"

She lifted her bag onto her shoulder.

"On plea? In supplication?"

"In supplication? Really?"

He beamed. "So the magic word is supplication."

She let go of his hand to adjust the strap on her shoulder, but caught herself when she had nearly reached for it again. "You're insufferable."

"Not insufferable, just incredibly persistent," he said, taking his bag and slinging it over his shoulder with ease. "Need help?"

"No."

"I'm not offering because I'm making fun of you or anything. I mean, your backpack is made of brick, and it's getting dark, and it's not exactly easy to go downhill, and I have more experience, so…"

"Still no."

"Caitlin."

"Barry."

"Now who's being insufferable?"

"Not insufferable, just incredibly determined," she returned.

"Touché. I see you're learning from the best."

"More like beating him at his own game."

They went on like this on their way down the slope, and halfway through, after what seemed like the nth time that Caitlin had slipped on something, they decided to compromise—she would carry her own bag, but she had to accept his help if the terrain was steep or rocky. He stayed close to her, keeping a hand on the small of her back or on the crook of her arm, and from time to time he would take hold of her hand—nonchalantly, as if the gesture didn't mean anything, or it meant too much for either of them to remark on aloud.

Caitlin didn't comment, but she let him do it.

When they finally reached flat ground without any casualties, he assumed an appropriate distance from her and walked her to the dorms. He thanked her for the day and started walk away, but then, as if he'd forgotten something, he quickly looked back to flash her one last broad, silly smile. It was so utterly charming that she gave him a full smile back, too.

Caitlin watched his retreating figure from her dorm window. Her mind was buzzing again, but she couldn't pay attention to any train of thought. Instead she curled her hand into a loose fist, trying to keep the lingering warmth of his hand in the small hollow of her palm.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes:** Well, that finale was… something. Or at least the last ten minutes were. I won't spoil it, but for those who've watched, what did you think? Can't believe we have to wait four more months for the next season… Anyway, sorry for the wait! I got sidetracked by writing other fics, haha. Once again, I'm really grateful for your patience and support. Sometimes when I'm stuck I reread reviews to haul my ass back into writing. You'll never know how happy they make me. Thank you so much! (By the way, special thanks to Gaby, who helped me straighten out the kinks, so to speak, in this chapter. :P) I don't know what parties or socials are like from where you're from, but I'm writing from what I know. If you're interested, the OS for the latter half is "Something Just Like This" by The Chainsmokers and Coldplay. Enjoy!

 _(To guest reviewer ShanouNash: Thank you for always dropping by to leave thoughtful reviews across my fics! I love hearing what you think about them and the ship and the show, too. To reply to your review in the previous chapter: Words are usually poor consolation, but I am so, so sorry for your loss. As someone who's experienced loss as well and who wrote from that experience, my heart goes out to you… I hope you're beginning to heal in your own way.)_

* * *

There was something that Cisco had always said to Caitlin and Felicity back in high school as the be all and end all explanation for their friendship. "Guys—uh, girls—it's simple, really, why _this_ works," he'd said, grinning. "It's because our collective level of sanity is lower than that of the normal population's." Over time, they'd come to accept this as they would any other scientific fact, and this ritual reaffirmation of their collective insanity had become a vital part of their friendship, just as how going to parties every weekend was a vital part of other people's friendships.

Now, however, as Caitlin sat in front of her desk an hour after her shower, cringing away from the curling iron that Jax was holding to her hair and the make-up brush that Felicity was holding to her face, Caitlin considered Cisco's words again and wondered whether she had unwittingly crossed over to the Zone of Sanity, leaving all her friends deep in the Zone of Collective Insanity. What else was she supposed to think when Felicity had pushed a waist-high stack of books to block the door in a surprising display of physical strength that Caitlin had never witnessed in her before? What else was she supposed to think when Jax had climbed in from the window, brandishing a curling iron and a straightening iron from the back pocket of his jeans like a cowboy brandishing guns from their holsters?

"You're not going to like this, Cait," Felicity had said, "but we're doing this for your own good."

"Think of it as an investment for your future," Jax had added. "Like how we study all this shit in college so we have a better shot at getting jobs."

"What's supposed to be an investment?" Caitlin had asked, quite stupidly, because she'd already known the answer—the curling iron and straightening iron were dead giveaways. In retrospect, instead of asking that dumb question she should've just flung herself out the window.

"Remember, the less you resist, the sooner you can get back to working on your thesis," Felicity had continued blithely, pulling her make-up kit from one of her drawers and setting them down on Caitlin's desk with an ominous and final thud. It was a thud that would brook no arguments. It was a thud that announced Felicity had the last word, no questions asked.

So, there she was, trapped in her own room by her so-called friends, too stunned by their ambush to put up any more resistance than the occasional squirm or wince. On one hand, she was quite touched to have friends that cared so much about her 'future,' as Jax put it, no matter how twisted their care was. On the other hand, she was convinced that they were all insane. Right now she was feeling a mix of affection for and fear of them. She didn't think those two emotions could even occur together.

It wasn't like she would've put up a fight in the first place. She wasn't vehemently opposed to having her hair and make-up done. After all, she did comb her hair and put on make-up when she had to go to interviews or conferences. (Although this was debatable—Felicity would say, "Hastily slapping on some BB cream and lip gloss don't count as proper make-up putting," and Caitlin would say, "I'm applying for jobs where I'll be handling hazardous chemicals, and if those react with my make-up I could die," and even if Caitlin usually made more sense, it still never stopped Felicity from bringing it up, just to annoy her.) So, Caitlin felt that if her friends had asked her nicely, she would have acquiesced. The conversation could have gone something like this:

" _Hey, Cait, want us to do your hair and make-up for Helix?"_

" _I have a twenty-minute break before my next Pomodoro, so if you can do it within that time, I guess I'll be fine with it."_

Caitlin feared that the scenario they imagined went something like this:

" _Hey, Cait, want us to do your hair and make-up for Helix?"_

" _Are you INSANE? Do I LOOK like I have TIME for such frivolity as MAKE-UP? How DARE you even SUGGEST that I have IDLE TIME in my DAY!"_

(Why she imagined that they'd imagine her in her mother's caps-lock chat syntax, she didn't know.)

In any case, she wasn't about to tell them that she wouldn't've put up much of a fight. She knew that what fueled them while they were gleefully planning for this ambush was the prospect of her violent resistance, so if she told them that their efforts had been unnecessary, they would be severely disheartened. Felicity, especially. She was sure that Felicity had orchestrated the entire thing.

Caitlin couldn't believe it. Here she was, coerced into having a makeover, and yet she was being nice enough to think about how not to inadvertently hurt her coercers' feelings. Maybe she was still in the Zone of Collective Insanity, after all.

Suddenly she shot up in her chair. Something had been bothering her since all this happened, but it wasn't until she'd circled back to Cisco's remark that she realized what it was.

"Where's Cisco?"

There was a long, pregnant pause.

" _Guys."_

"He's practicing his script for Helix," Felicity said quickly. "They got him as a last-minute emcee, since their original emcee was sick. I forgot the guy's name. It was something weird, like… M… Mark?"

"Mark isn't a weird name."

"It _sounds_ like Mark," she said, blending the liquid foundation into her skin perhaps a little too forcefully. "Something like… Dark?"

"Darth," Jax said.

"Darth," Felicity confirmed.

"As in Darth Vader, Darth?" Caitlin said skeptically.

"Uh. Yeah…?"

"You guys are terrible liars."

"You're one to talk," Felicity said. "Hey, Jax, is the curling iron hot enough yet? Don't let it get too hot."

"I think it's good," he said. "Alright, try not to move too much. It's been awhile since I last used this thing."

Caitlin narrowed her eyes at him. "Why, exactly, do you have curling and straightening irons?"

"One of my exes left them in my room. It was a bad break-up," he said, as if that fully explained why the curling and straightening irons were still in his possession. Jax went on, while experimentally wrapping a strand of her hair around the curling iron, "Hey, don't give me that look. I had to break up with her, man. She made me watch _hair tutorials_. Sure, I also made her watch football videos, but I never made her play football with me. Not even virtually."

"So you broke up with her because she made you watch hair tutorials?"

"I broke up with her because she made me watch hair tutorials _and_ _then_ try them on her hair. Don't get me wrong. I was cool with it. It was actually pretty fun sometimes. Anyway, I accidentally burned off a chunk of her hair, and she went berserk on me—"

" _You accidentally burned off a chunk of her hair?"_

"Yeah, but that was _once_ in like, a hundred times," he said defensively. "That's a 99% success rate. That's practically Elite-Four-level hairstyling. And I can do barrel curls like a pro."

For the first time in the past half-hour, Felicity looked apologetic. "He volunteered for it."

"Oh, God."

Caitlin figured it was far too optimistic to hope for "Elite-Four-level hairstyling," but she supposed it was reasonable enough to hope that she got out of this with every chunk of hair still firmly attached to her scalp.

 **. . .**

When Jax was halfway done curling her hair—thankfully no casualties had occurred, although it was too soon to announce something like that or she might jinx it—Cisco climbed in through the window and caused such a commotion with all his grunting and tumbling down that Caitlin's first instinct was to turn around to see what was going on, but having the curling iron so close to her scalp had prevented her from doing so.

"What's all that noise?" she said instead.

"Hola, amigos!" Cisco said. Caitlin heard him dust himself off and approach the cluster around her desk-turned-vanity. "What's up? Oh, nice work, man. Your hair looks awesome, Cait."

"Thanks, bro. I told you I was good at this."

"You also told us that you burned your ex's hair off."

"Chill, _chica_. It was _one_ time," Cisco said. "And it was _one_ clump."

"Thanks, bro."

"Oh, God," Caitlin said again.

"So!" Cisco said, clapping his hands. "Are you ready to seduce the socks of Barry Allen?"

"No."

"She's getting there," Jax said at the same time. "I've been giving her tips."

"Grab a seat," Felicity said to Cisco. "We're getting her to bat her lashes."

"Oh, this'll be fun," Cisco said, pulling up a chair behind Caitlin and peeking at her through the mirror on her desk. It was such a small mirror that all she could see was her floating head and part of Jax's torso, and now the upper half of Cisco's face.

"Okay, so, to recap," Jax said. "One of the principles of seduction is smiling and making frequent eye contact. This signals to the other person that you dig them."

"I still don't understand how eye-batting is subsumed under this principle. Eye contact requires my eyes to be open."

Jax gave a warning tug on her hair. "Remember, your hair is in my hands. I could make you a goddess, but I could also give you a bad hair day. What's it going to be, Caitlin? A goddess or a bad hair day?"

"That's not fair. And I really don't think seduction would work. Barry and I sort of, well, held hands—"

"WHAT!"

Caitlin winced as she felt a slight tug on her hair and pressure on her right eyelid, which Felicity had been applying eyeshadow primer on.

"The hell you did!"

"How is this not the first thing you told us?"

"You _let_ him hold your hand? For real? Or was it like, air-hand-holding?"

"I think it's reasonably real," Caitlin said, before proceeding to give them a summary of what happened the day before, a telling made much longer by their reactions. They were all especially in awe of the bone-naming. Cisco called it "a genius flirting technique." Jax called it "the first time I'm impressed by nerdy flirting." Felicity called it "sooo romantic."

"He is so into you," Felicity concluded at the end of the story.

"I don't get it, though. Why hasn't admitted it yet?" Cisco said.

"Not explicitly," Felicity said, "but how can hand-holding _not_ be an admission? I mean, people can make out and deny that they like each other, but _hand-holding?"_

Jax said, "That was smart of him. If Caitlin didn't want him to hold her hand, he'd say, _I'm not holding it, I was just gonna show you something_ , and if she didn't say anything, he also still gets to hold her hand."

"Sneaky," Cisco said.

"I would appreciate it if you don't talk too much while curling my hair," Caitlin said, noticing how he'd been curling a particular chunk of hair for a few seconds too long.

"Don't worry. I can multi-task. I'm a beast at multi-tasking."

"That's… not something to be proud of—"

"So my guess is," Jax continued, gesturing forcefully now, so that with every movement of his Caitlin felt a slight tug on her hair, "he's scared of scaring you off. It's a good thing because he likes you enough to take it slow. But that also means you gotta show him you're ready to take it to the next level."

"But I'm not ready to take it to the next level," Caitlin said.

"But you've already held hands," Cisco said. "You guys just did, like, the romantic equivalent of skipping a grade."

"The ball's in your court now," Jax said. "Which is why you need to seduce him."

"No," Caitlin said, but as usual they blithely ignored her and carried on with discussion what manner of seduction she could pull off without looking like an awkward turtle. She wasn't even an awkward human being—she was an awkward _turtle._

Caitlin sighed. She was well past any point of resistance.

 **. . .**

Caitlin had known from a young age that while she had gotten her keen scientific mind from her mother, she would never get her fashion sense.

Her mother had long been trying to get Caitlin to delight in fashion the same way she did to no avail. Still, for Caitlin's birthday every year, she would pick out one dress for her, and the kind of dress she'd pick depended on her mood. Usually she was in a good mood, so she sent Caitlin summery floral dresses and pleated pink dresses and geometrically-patterned dresses in such daring color combinations that it seemed like someone had crushed a box of Crayola all over them.

But, on her most recent birthday, in place of the usual assault of pattern and color, Caitlin had received a simple, long-sleeved black dress instead. Naturally, she was puzzled. It still wasn't to her taste—it _sparkled_ , for one—but her mother only ever indulged in blacks and neutrals when she had a deadline. So right after she'd gotten the dress, she'd called her mother to ask about how her most recent paper was doing.

"Oh, darling, I don't have any deadlines!" she'd said exuberantly. "The next one is months away. Months! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Really?" Caitlin had replied, dubious. "But the dress you sent me—it's just… well, black."

" _Ahhh,_ that. Well, I suppose I got tired of sending you dresses that you weren't going to wear anyway," she'd said, heaving a sigh. "Do you like it? You'll wear this one, won't you?"

Caitlin had held the dress at eye level and winced when the harsh fluorescent lights reflected off the sequins. "Mother, it's too sparkly—"

"Too sparkly! Nonsense!" she'd huffed. "You should have seen the one I chose for myse—" She'd been abruptly cut off by a garbled noise in the background, and then a voice speaking through an amplifier. "Oh, sorry, darling, it's time for me to board. I'm off to Brazil in a bit, did I tell you?"

"…Just now, actually—"

"Oh, I didn't? Must've slipped my mind, silly me. Anyway, happy birthday, darling. Do wear the dress for me, I'm afraid I'm confined to wearing those dreadful pink volunteer shirts for this trip. Ciao!"

Caitlin had hung up then, still feeling puzzled. But, despite her mother's request, she never did wear that dress.

Not until today, that is.

It turned out that Cisco had been gone for the first half-hour of her makeover because, having no make-up or hairstyling skills, he'd been tasked to pick up her dress from the dry cleaners'. How Felicity had managed to unearth it from her wardrobe without her noticing anything out of place was beyond her. Felicity was scary like that sometimes.

"It's too sparkly," Caitlin said, regarding herself in their murky full-length mirror. "And it's too short. I can't sit down without revealing my underwear to everyone. And the neckline's too low—"

"So that's _The_ Dress," Jax said, glancing up. "I see it deserves the article _The._ "

"Relax, Cait," Felicity said. She had taken over her desk and was currently having her hair curled by Jax. "It's fine. You look amazing. Barry won't be able to take his eyes off you."

"Because she's a human disco ball?" Cisco said.

Felicity gave him a warning glare. "Because she's gorgeous."

"Her hair's pretty dope," Jax said.

"It is," Caitlin had to admit. It was possibly the best part of her makeover. That, and Felicity's smoky eyeshadow look. She now understood what Felicity meant when she said smoky eyes made her feel 'fierce.' Not that Caitlin would ever use 'fierce' to describe herself, but really, who knew that a streak of color over one's eyelids could give one a confidence boost?

"Do you guys want to listen to my script?" Cisco said.

Caitlin tugged on the hem of her skirt as she sat on her bed. "Does it contain a lot of science puns?"

"Of course it contains a lot of science puns. What else would it contain?"

The three of them exchanged glances.

"What? What's wrong with science puns?"

"Nothing," Caitlin said quickly. "Let's hear it, then."

* * *

Two hours and two dozen bad science puns later, the four of them finally made their way to Verdant, the club a little outside the University Town owned by Oliver. The party hadn't even officially started yet and already there were more people milling about than there were when the party was in full swing in the previous years. Cisco looked at the crowd and gulped.

"Don't worry, man," Jax said, clasping Cisco on the shoulder. "We'll laugh at all your jokes."

"I downloaded some canned laughter just in case," Felicity added. "I can always hack the system to play it."

"You'll be fine," Caitlin said. "Just don't use the jokes we slashed off your script."

"Can I keep the one about the favorite game of DNA—"

"No," they said simultaneously.

"Geez. Fine, fine." Cisco took a deep breath. "Thanks, guys. Whew. Wish me luck."

When Cisco disappeared among people putting the final touches on the set-up, Caitlin discreetly turned her attention back to the crowd. It made her apprehensive, as well, but for a completely different reason. She already disliked crowds in general—she could never understand what was so appealing about being stranded in the midst of smelly, sweaty, gyrating bodies—but now she was even more on edge because she knew that Barry would be somewhere in that crowd.

Now, she found herself in a strange predicament. On one hand, she wanted to see him, and she wanted to be seen by him. But, on the other hand, she dreaded being seen by him, if only because she felt her appearance gave too much away. Would he be able to suspect her feelings from how she looked? Could he guess that the makeover was done with him in mind? Sure, the makeover had been "forced" on her, but she wouldn't have given in so easily if she really didn't want it to happen.

In retrospect, Felicity might have known that she would never have asked for a makeover even if she wanted one, so she must've taken it upon herself to carry it out…

Felicity suddenly grabbed her arm. "There's Barry!"

"Who? What? _Where?"_

She grinned. "Just kidding."

Caitlin huffed, trying not to reveal how much of a heart attack she had just suffered. "Not funny, Felicity."

"Way funny, Cait. You should have seen your face. Anyway, Oliver told me he'd text me when—"

"Caitlin? _Caitlin Snow,_ is that you?"

Both girls startled when Eliza appeared before them. She was holding a clipboard to her chest and was eyeing Caitlin with barely concealed wonder. "Okay, _wow._ Who are you and what have you done with Caitlin Snow?"

"She was kidnapped and stuffed into a dank basement," Caitlin said. "What you're seeing now is a solid holographic image."

Eliza gave her a wry look. "Okay, fine. You're still Caitlin. But seriously. You _never_ dress like this. And your hair and make-up are so on point. I'm impressed."

"Thank you," Felicity grinned.

"You did her hair and make-up?"

"Just the make-up. Jax did her hair."

"That explains a lot. I didn't think Caitlin knew how to hold a curling iron."

"She doesn't," Felicity agreed.

 _Go ahead and bond over my incompetence in feminine grooming, why don't you,_ Caitlin thought, a bit nastily. It wasn't that she didn't like Eliza. It was just that, in that moment, having small talk with anyone was intolerable; it only exacerbated her restlessness. It seemed like the only thing that could quell it was Barry Allen's appearance. How was it that he'd completely reduced her to this mass of irritable, nervous energy? And why, for the love of God, was he always _late?_ She just wanted the torment to end already.

"—something that rhymes with Parry Mallen?"

Caitlin snapped back to attention, and saw that Eliza and Felicity were exchanging sly smiles.

"He's across the room, darling," Eliza drawled. "Near the 3D DNA displays."

"I wasn't looking for anyone—"

" _Thank you, Eliza. You're an angel, Eliza._ Why, you're welcome, Caitlin," she said, looking insufferably smug. "I gotta run. Have fun, guys."

"Great job organizing this," Felicity said amiably. "Good luck for the rest of the night…"

Felicity then proceeded to say something about going off to find Oliver and strangling him because why hadn't he called her, they were supposed to meet earlier, and didn't he own the club? Weren't club owners supposed to be, you know, early and responsible? But Caitlin couldn't quite focus on her rambling, because she had finally spotted Barry in the crowd.

He looked good. He looked too good, as usual. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans, a charcoal grey crew-neck top, and a maroon bomber jacket thrown over it. He was ringed by small crowd. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but his face was lit with laughter—the same way it was when he was with her, she thought, feeling a stab of betrayal for a reason she couldn't name—and he seemed like he was in the middle of telling them a story, from the way he made animated gestures. Even from afar, he was practically vibrating with energy; he held people in rapt attention with his effortless charm, and she knew very well that they couldn't help gravitating to him any more than the planets gravitate to the sun.

Suddenly, she felt like the entire scene had taken on a sheen of unreality. She felt like an observer of her experience. The movements around her slowed; the sounds hollowed. Why would someone like him be interested in _her_? She was an incredibly private person, reserved and cautious and overly analytical; he was an open book, exuberant and carefree and completely trusting of people. She couldn't charm anyone if she tried; he only had to smile at someone to beguile them. The only reason she had friends was because they got used to having her around; he made friends anywhere he went. She had a dry sense of humor on the best of days, and even then her humor was often "too smart" for most people—instead of endearing her to them, her intellect repelled them. Barry was the exact opposite: He had that uncanny knack for making anyone share his nerdy love for science; he couldn't repel people if he tried.

And—this seemed the most important to her, the crystallization of all their opposing qualities—Barry was a looker, and she just… _wasn't_. She didn't even have the saving grace of other average-looking girls, who knew how to put on make-up and wear trendy clothes to look pretty enough for a decent Instagram post. Well, right now she did have make-up and the trendy clothes, but she was already feeling incredibly foolish in them. She felt like she was wearing a costume. She was trying to get Barry to like her by trying to be someone she wasn't, and she was overcome by such shame that she just wanted to escape the party, to crawl out of her own skin—

But it was too late. It was already starting, and some people from her block had spotted her and were now making a beeline towards her, giving her the same look that Eliza had given her moments ago. They were going to tease her, no doubt. They were going to want explanations. It was going to be unbearable, but it was better than watching Barry from a distance, wishing-not-wishing that he would notice her.

So she tore her gaze from him and steeled herself with a deep breath. She would force herself to function, even while that strange, foreign feeling was gnawing a hole in her chest. She wasn't going to let that, whatever it was, get the best of her.

 **. . .**

" _Goooood evening, everyone! Welcome to Helix, the nucleus of all that's cool in school! Ah, I see you've followed the dress code—a lot of you are wearing_ genes…"

"Oh, stop grimacing," Caitlin said to Hartley, who'd appeared beside her on the bar moments ago while her blockmates had been swarming around her. He was a crowd repellent, so they'd slowly dispersed when he'd arrived. Caitlin had merely raised a brow at him. He generally considered parties to be a mind-numbing waste of time, but it didn't take a scientist to deduce why he was here now. "It was funny."

"His jokes are terrible."

"You find them endearing."

"Don't make me laugh, Frosty."

"Wasn't trying to. Cisco was."

He downed a shot in silence. Strangely enough, his presence wasn't quite as intolerable as that of others. Hartley, at least, didn't say anything when he saw her, aside from his usual curt nod in lieu of a greeting. That and she didn't have to expend energy to be nice to him, either.

" _Let me introduce myself. My name's Ramon. Cisco Ramon. Third year in Mechanical Engineering. I'm going to be your host for tonight. Before I introduce the distinguished alumni here with us, and before we can all hit the dance floor and get wasteeed—oops, sorry Dr. McGee, I mean hit the dance floor and drink responsibly, right, guys?—we're holding the mandatory initiation rites for the freshmen, and anyone who just shifted in this year. You've all heard the rumors, right?"_

"They still do this?" Hartley said, incredulous.

"Mmm-hmm."

He scoffed. "How juvenile."

" _Yes, I heard someone say it—yes, our fearsome initiation rite is KARAOKE! As I like to say, karaoke is the central dogma of friendship. So without further ado, volunteer a newbie in your course! Drag them onstage if you must! First two people here beside me get two shots of liquid courage on the house—"_

There was some jostling and raucous laughter towards the front, and then there _he_ was onstage, looking bewildered and disheveled, but smiling sheepishly as his block cheered him on. Someone that Caitlin recognized as a newbie in Applied Chemistry climbed up after him, although he wasn't received with the same level of applause as Barry.

Hartley glanced at her. She refused to meet his gaze.

" _Wonderful, wonderful! Ah, but we're not just having our usual one-on-one karaoke. No, as the DNA is double-stranded, so should our representatives have a… uh… partner strand! So before I hand you your promised shots, gentlemen, you're going to have to choose your partners onstage. Choose well, gentlemen, choose well…"_

Again, near the stage, the crowd of people Barry had emerged from began chanting. It wasn't until the chanting had reached a certain volume that Caitlin realized what they were chanting.

" _Pa-tty! Pa-tty! Pa-tty!"_

The gnawing in her chest returned.

She might have imagined it, but she could have sworn that Cisco looked right at her from the front, his gaze worried and apologetic.

She had a vague recollection of Barry mentioning that name. She knew that this Patty was one of the people he could make science jokes with, and she also had a memory of a pretty blonde girl with a dimpled smile who'd come to watch one of his meets. And apparently she was so perfect for him that their entire block was shipping them.

" _Alright, so Clarence has made his pick! Come up here, Daisy of Applied Chemistry! What about you, Barry? You can choose from your own course, of course, but you can also choose someone from another course—"_

Barry said something into his microphone, but it seemed that it was broken.

" _Sorry about that. Uh, can we have some help with Barry's mic? Thanks. Anyway, Barry, who did you want to call up onstage?"_

Caitlin felt like her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. The chanting was getting louder now. She was sure it was Patty. Her suspicions from the beginning of the party had been right all along—he probably wasn't into her. He hadn't even sought her out the moment he arrived, whereas he seemed to be the only one in her field of vision.

She should start accepting that fact. It was unrequited. No big deal.

 _No big deal,_ she repeated hollowly.

Against her resolution for the night, she downed the shot that'd been prepared for Hartley.

"— _what's that? Can you repeat your question? …Is Caitlin Snow here?"_

The din in the room fell to a hush.

Caitlin's heart leapt to her throat.

Hartley glanced at her again, smirking over the rim of his glass.

"Yes! Yes, Caitlin Snow is _definitely_ here!"Cisco said, swiveling around and shooting a huge grin in her direction. Barry craned his neck. "Come on up here, Caitlin of Molecular Biology! You have been summoned for a vocal-chord duel!"

When she finally registered Cisco's words—Barry chose her! _Her!_ —she was flooded with a relief so palpable that she sagged against the table. But then murmurs suddenly rippled through the crowd—variations of "Who the hell is Caitlin?" and "He didn't choose Patty? I thought they were a thing!"—and the people within the vicinity that _did_ know her gave her incredulous looks.

The relief quickly mutated into anxiety.

Sure, it was partly because Barry Allen had just called her onstage in front of a room of over a hundred people, but it was mostly because he'd called onstage for a _sing-off_ , and she just remembered that she was tone-deaf as fuck.

 **. . .**

As she made her way through the crowd, the din began to increase again, but there was a marked decrease in commotion near the stage, where Barry's blockmates were. When she neared the group, she caught a glimpse of the pretty blonde girl in profile—her smile looked bravely forced, and her body language spelled disappointment—and Caitlin couldn't help but feel partly responsible for that disappointment.

Barry threw an apologetic look to his blockmates, but once he saw her, he beamed at her. It was enough to make her feel even more self-conscious than she already was.

When she climbed up the stage, feeling exposed under the lights and without the crowd to hide her, she caught Barry's eyes rove up her bare legs, pausing to linger at the daring neckline of her dress, and then sliding them up to her face. When his eyes finally met hers, they were a shade darker.

"You look amazing," he said as she neared him, and then blushed furiously when the crowd burst into hooting and catcalls.

He looked confused for a moment before he realized that they had already fixed the microphone.

"Oh, sorry, I said it out loud," he said sheepishly to the crowd, and there was a ripple of laughter before he covered the mic with a hand. He turned to look at her again, still grinning, with a blush creeping up the back of his neck. "Sorry. I thought it was still, uh, broken. You, uh. You look really amazing."

"I heard it well enough the first time," she said, surprised at how even her voice sounded. She was already spontaneously combusting from the inside. "I'm going to kill you, you know."

"I know," he said. "I figured it was worth the risk."

"Barry. I'm tone-deaf."

His eyebrows shot up. "For real?"

"Yes."

"Oh. You are so going to kill me, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Can you, uh, postpone the killing until after we get off the stage?"

"Sure, if you don't want witnesses."

He winced. "Are you mad?" (She wasn't, but she'd rather make him think she was mad than relieved.) "Like, you're going to abandon me now mad?"

"Probably."

"But we're blood buddies."

"Not at this moment we aren't—"

"So yesterday we definitely were?"

"Not in _any_ moment we aren't." She glared at him. "A true blood buddy wouldn't have called me up onstage without notifying me first."

His grin at her use of the term nearly split his face. "Sorry, it was a spur in the moment thing," he said. In the background, Cisco was interviewing Clarence on why he'd chosen Daisy. Apparently she was a good singer. "I was trying to call you, but the signal's weird in this place. Oliver couldn't reach Felicity, either."

He'd tried to call her? Caitlin felt herself mellow.

"So I figured, Hey, since I can't find her, why not call her up onstage?"

Well, okay, not that mellow. "You could have tried looking for me in the crowd like a normal person—"

"But it takes so _long_ , and I don't like waiting," he said. "It's so much faster this way. And a lot more fun. Well, minus the fact that you're tone-deaf."

"And I don't like being in front of crowds," she said.

"Right. Minus that too."

"That basically takes all the fun out of it."

"But then you have fun with me," he said, grinning. "And I think karaoke is fun, so by transitive property, you're going to have fun."

"That makes absolutely no sense—"

She stopped herself when Cisco suddenly called their names, his smile huge and his eyes glittering. "Now, let's hear from Barry and Caitlin! Can we give them a round of applause?"

Caitlin felt faint when she faced the audience again. She could have sworn her legs trembled during their thunderous applause.

"So, Barry," Cisco was saying, "what's your relationship with Caitlin?"

At that she tore her gaze from the crowd and shot him a glare. She was going to kill this boy.

"Lab partners," Barry said into his mic, seemingly unfazed by the way Cisco had phrased the question. "She was the first friend I made in Science & Tech when I'd shifted in."

"I see, I see," Cisco nodded. "Which lab?"

"Cell and Molecular Biology," he said. "Under Dr. Wells."

There was a collective gasp from the audience, and Barry smiled sheepishly. "I know, right? I mean, it's pretty challenging, but I manage. Even if I'm picking up on Caitlin's slack, I manage."

The audience laughed, and Caitlin rolled her eyes.

"The lady doth protest!" Cisco said. "What say you to that, Caitlin?"

"All I can say is that I wasn't the one who spilled the specimen on my lab partner, giving said partner a horrible rash afterwards."

There was scattered laughter, and Cisco, barely able to contain his grin, said, "Oh, burn! What say you, Barry?"

"All I can say is, the beaker… suddenly… moved away from my hand—"

" _Moved away from your hand?_ Beakers don't move on their own—"

"Fine, the specimen inside the beaker moved the beaker—"

"The specimen was _a_ _**plant**_ —"

"Whoa, okay," Cisco said, putting his hands up in front of them, as if to calm them down, "we have a very spirited pair over here. What do you think your chances of winning are, on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the highest?"

"Ten."

"Zero."

"Zero? Seriously? That's not even on the scale!"

"Exactly."

"O…kay. So your final answer is?"

"Wait, can you give us a second? We have to discuss this," Barry said, covering the mic with his hand. "Come on. I don't like losing."

"I don't, either, but I. Can't. Sing," she said through gritted teeth. "Zero is realistic. At least we won't have overestimated ourselves."

"But _I_ can sing."

" _You_ can sing?"

"Yeah. Sexy baritone, remember?"

She gave him a dubious look.

" _Anyway_ , I'd say eight."

"Five."

"Seven."

"Five."

"Definitely eleven," Barry said into the microphone. "Get ready, Clarence and Daisy. We're going to beat you."

"Oh, God," Caitlin muttered. She and Cisco exchanged glances.

"Just lip sync," Cisco whispered to her, as Clarence responded to Barry. "If you sing all that seduction training you went through will be for nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not to discourage you or anything."

"Thanks," she said dryly.

"Anyway, gotta get back to hosting," he said. "Good luck. I'm not supposed to be biased but I'm gonna be so biased and cheer for you anyway." He grinned at her, and then turned back to the crowd.

"Alright, contestants! Take your shots, and let's get this sing-off started!"

 **. . .**

In retrospect, she really shouldn't have taken those shots.

She'd already taken one before they made their way to Verdant, and she'd taken another while with Hartley. By the time she'd downed the third one, she was lightheaded; by the fourth, she felt like she could conquer the world. Those last two were particularly nasty, but once she'd gulped them down, a pleasant warmth had started to spread throughout her, which made up for the weird paint-thinner taste in her mouth.

"Barry Allen!" she said into the microphone when the strains of the first song came on. "We are going to bring this place _DOWN!"_

Barry looked amused. "You're not much of a drinker, are you?"

"Not much of a— _psh,_ what are you talking about? Don't you believe in me?"

"I do, but—"

" _SUMMER LOVIN', had me a BLAST!"_ she began, bobbing to the song. She felt like she was flying. She felt the music coursing through her body, the bass thrumming in time with her heartbeat. She was feeling the song. She was _one_ with the song. They were so going to win this. _"SUMMER LOVIN', happened so FAST!"_

From the corner of her eye, she saw Cisco shaking his head. He was supposed to be cheering for them! Why wasn't he cheering for them?

" _I met a girl, crazy for me,"_ Barry continued, grinning at her.

She smiled back at him. _"Met a boy, CUTE as can BE!"_ He was so cute, wasn't he? And bleeding hell, did he have an amazing voice. No wonder everyone liked him. No wonder she liked him. It was impossible not to. She can't remember why it'd taken her so long to admit this. Why was she so uptight, anyway? She should drink more often. She'd forgotten how fun it was to drink. There was a reason she didn't want to, of course, but reasons, shmeasons! She can't bring herself to give a rat's ass about shmeasons now. Especially when she could be sneaking glances at Barry's ass. Now _that_ gave her shmeasons a run for their money.

Now, together, they sang, _"Summer days drifting away to oh, the summer nights oh well oh well oh…"_

The lights streaking her vision. The music flowing through her. Barry's smile and Barry's eyes and the way he looked at her under these bright lights, like she was pretty and funny and a-fucking-mazing. But really. Her hair was in Elite-Four-level barrel curls and her eyeshadow game is so _on point_ and her dress clung to her like second skin. Barry should know. He kept looking at her. He also kept looking at her legs.

She decided to tease him about it.

In the middle of the song, she said, "My eyes are up here, Mr. Allen," and she smiled slyly as a dark shade of red crawled up his neck and his face. He spluttered an apology and avoided looking at her legs for the rest of that song, which made her kind of regret teasing him in the first place. It was nice to have her legs appreciated. And she'd just shaved them, too! They were like so silky now, like baby dolphins. She loved baby dolphins. She usually loved them more than her legs, but tonight she loved them equally.

They were on the second song now, and the audience was laughing uproariously. Clarence and that flower girl sang well but they were so _boring_. At least she and Barry were funny. Well, Barry knew how to sing, but he was also funny.

With the soaring of the music she spread her arms wide and surrendered herself to the blur of faces in the dark. _Go ahead and laugh_ , she thought. _We'll give you one hell of a show._

* * *

It had gone as terribly as one would imagine it to go. Which is to say, from that point onward, Caitlin had no respectable reputation to speak of, although everyone did seem less intimidated by her. Had she been herself she would say that it was possibly the most catastrophic thing that had ever happened to her, but since she wasn't herself yet, she just thought that she was having a lot of fun.

The alcohol was starting to wear off, though. After all, they'd been kept onstage for four more rounds, facing off against different pairs, and they'd won in the end based on audience impact. But Cisco had refused to give her extra shots as their supposed reward. He'd given her water instead. Buzzkill.

"You know," Barry said, as they were making their way down the stage, "I find it really cute that you can't sing at all. I've never met anyone so terrible at it."

He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her, and she leaned into him. He smelled nice. He always smelled nice. If only men could smell this nice, the world would be a better place. "You're doing that thing again where I don't know if you're complimenting me or insulting me," she said. "We should categorize that. Compliminsult? Insultiment?"

"It's a compliment," he said, smiling. "Careful, you might trip. Who knew you were such a lightweight?"

"I am _not_ a lightweight. That's ridiculous. I'm fine. I'm not even slurring."

"You can hardly stand by yourself." They finally reached the bottom of the stage. People were already dispersing—majority were hitting the bars, some were on the dance floor, and a select few were seen mingling with the alumni.

"I can stand fine," she said. "I bet I can even dance fine."

"Really."

"Really."

"Are you asking me to dance?"

"No. It was a figure of speech. Are you?"

"Guess I am now," he said, with a sheepish shrug. "Do you want to dance?"

"Not really." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'll let you in on a secret. My dancing's worse than my singing."

He laughed. "No way."

"It's true. I have absolutely zero coordination. The only dance moves I can properly execute are bobbing and drunken swaying." She gave him an accusing look. "Don't tell me you can dance, too."

"Let's just say that I can dance well enough for the both of us," he said, grinning and taking her hand to lead her to the dance floor. His hand was large and warm and calloused, and he was threading his fingers through hers.

She stared for a moment at their joined hands.

This was nice. This was very nice.

He led them to the edge of the dance floor, avoiding the dense mass of writhing bodies in the middle. It was also a spot that wasn't so close to the speakers, so while they did have to raise their voices, at least they didn't have to yell.

"Okay, Caitlin," he said, "a little Dancing 101: When you're dancing with someone else, close physical contact is kind of mandatory—"

"Oh, come on. I know that." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't make fun of me."

He flashed her a wicked grin. "Don't make it so easy for me to."

"Huh. That was a good comeback," she said. They stepped apart for a moment to let a few people stumble in between them, and then she turned to face him again. "Why do you have such good comebacks all the time? It makes me feel kind of… dumb. Kind of awed, don't get me wrong, but also kind of dumb."

He stepped closer to her, and his hands slowly snaked around her waist. She slid her hands up his chest—fudge it all, she won't deny it anymore, it was a _very_ gropable chest—and settled them lightly on his shoulders. She felt him shudder against her. "Caitlin," he said, his eyes darkening. He tilted his head down and put his mouth right over the shell of her ear, his breath hot on her sensitive skin. "You're many things, but dumb is never one of them."

The gritty huskiness of his voice, the way his hands tightened around her waist when he said that, sent a flood of heat to her face. She felt a familiar dryness in her throat. She wanted to look away from him, but she'd just probably end up burying her face in his very well-muscled chest, which wasn't going to help abate this—whatever it was—at all.

"We're not dancing to the beat," she said instead. It was true. It did disturb her. They were the only two people swaying, and everyone else was jumping and pumping their fists in the air. She didn't know how to dance, but even her body knew that there was something asynchronous about the thumping beat of the music and their slow, gliding movements.

He arched a brow. "And whose fault is that?"

"Well, whose fault is it that we're dancing in the first place?" She had to move her lips closer to his ear to be heard above the bass, and his body curved around hers to hear her better. "You should have known better than to ask me to dance. I'm not in full possession of my rational faculties. This was a bad decision."

"If you can still say things like 'in full possession of my rational faculties,' then you probably still have them."

"Oh, shut up—crap—I just stepped on something—was that your foot?"

"Yeah," he said, wincing. "It's fine. You've been stepping on my feet since we started, anyway."

" _What?_ You should've said something."

"Ow. Hey, I'm already the victim here. You really should stop hitting me when you're annoyed."

"Well, you should stop being annoying."

"Huh, look at that. You still have enough rational faculty to insult me."

"In the first place, it doesn't take much rational faculty to insult you."

He grinned at her.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing," he said. One of his hands moves to clasp her hand on his shoulder, and he held it in between them. "Care for a twirl?"

"This isn't exactly twirl-y music."

"It's not swaying music, either, yet here we are. You also owe me for stepping on my feet."

"You're _blackmailing_ me."

"Man, my feet are _so_ sore now, I don't think I'll be able to run on my next meet—"

"Okay, fine. _Fine,_ " Caitlin said, and he grinned again.

He stepped back from her and held her hand, giving her a mock-gallant bow. "Milady."

Caitlin tried to hide her smile. She feigned a haughty air and dipped into a curtsy. "Milord."

He spun her around once, and then she spun herself around for a second time. She liked the way the lights floated and blurred around her, the way her hair flared and settled on her shoulders. She closed her eyes to savor the moment. There was a refrain in the music that resembled a whirling movement, so Barry spun her around for a third time, a fourth time; and when she opened her eyes, he pulled her close to him again, hands running up the length of her arms before cupping the curve of her hips.

He touched his forehead to hers, and he was looking at her like there was nobody else in the room. "Hi."

"Hi." She placed her hands on his shoulders again, steadying herself. The room was still spinning.

"You okay?"

"Just a little dizzy," she said. "Remind me next time that alcohol and dancing are never a good combination. Alcohol and dancing and this—this evil dress." She put a hand to her back, touching the line of the zipper, and the motion had her inadvertently brushing her chest against his, but she wasn't able to catch the way Barry's breathing quickened, or the way he dug his fingers into her hips in an effort to steel himself. "It's a bit tight. If I drank a drop more I wouldn't be able to breathe. Do you think it's too tight?"

"No," he said, voice rough and eyes dark. "You look—amazing. But you also look amazing without i—ah, crap, that came out wrong"—in the dim light, she could barely make out the color creeping up his neck—"I mean, not _without_ it, without it—I wasn't imagining you naked or anything—ah, not really—it's not like it's a bad image, but you know—"

She tried to hide her amusement. "Barry, are you drunk?"

She could feel, rather than see, his sheepish smile. "Unfortunately not. My tolerance is legendary. It kind of sucks." He paused. "Can I try to redeem myself?"

"Are you sure you want to?"

"Can't get any worse, right?" he said. He put his lips again to the shell of her ear. "You look _amazing_ in this dress"—at this his hands slid up her body and skimmed her curves, supposedly to refer to the dress, but instead Caitlin felt a sudden heat shooting down, down in her core, and just, _God_ , what was he _doing_ to her—"but you also look amazing even if you're in a sweater and jeans, bullying me to get to work after my talking limit expires."

Something swelled and fluttered inside her chest, like a hummingbird ricocheting back and forth, ready to burst through the first fissure it sees. He thought she was amazing, she thought dully, the words echoing in her mind. He thought she looked amazing even in a sweater and jeans. He thought she was amazing even if she pestered him constantly with the details of their reports and deadlines…

She couldn't bear to look him in the eye. She was already burning up from the inside, and the way he was looking at her right now would just add fuel to that fire.

"I need to step out for a bit," she said abruptly, taking a step back from him. "I think I need some air."

She regretted the words almost as soon as she'd said them, because Barry's face had fallen, and she keenly felt the loss of his warmth.

"Oh, uh, okay," he said, still looking bewildered, but he promptly made some distance between them. His hands lingered a moment longer on her waist before falling back to his sides. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she said. "Still a little dizzy, that's all." This time, she suspected it had more to do with her proximity to him than the twirling or the evil dress or the vestiges of alcohol in her bloodstream. That, and the fact that if he kept up… whatever it was he was doing, she'd probably do something stupid, like kiss him. Her iron self-control was already slipping away, and she knew she couldn't even blame it on the alcohol. Cisco had made sure of that.

"Mind if I come with you?" he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. He had on that earnest half-smile, the one she couldn't refuse even if she had been mad at him, let alone when she was feeling vulnerable, disarmed by the sincerity of his compliment. His words were still drumming in the back of her mind as insistently as the bass was thrumming through her body.

"If you want to," she said. "You'll miss out on the party, though."

"Nah," he said. "I'd miss out on a lot more if I stayed, anyway." He grinned. "Like discovering what other _talents_ the great Caitlin Snow is hiding."

"Oh, shut up," she said, but a smile was already lifting her lips, and he was already taking her hand in his and walking away from the dance floor.

 **. . .**

After a brief discussion, they found themselves standing on the empty balcony of the second floor of Verdant, open only to those who had V.I.P. access. Barry had it by virtue of his association with Oliver, and Caitlin by virtue of her association with Felicity and _her_ association with Oliver.

"You really are such a lightweight," Barry teased. "When was the last time you got drunk, anyway?"

He bumped his shoulder to hers, and she thought that she immediately needed to put some distance between them, but she was lightheaded enough to be honest about her own duplicity—she wanted to be nearer to him again, not farther.

She was really starting to regret her spur-of-the-moment decision to leave the dance floor.

"A few years back," she said, belatedly realizing that his question required an answer. "If you're to be my friend, you'll never ask about it."

"That bad, huh?" he said, leaning back against the railing. "So since then this is the only time you've ever loosened up and had fun?"

"I don't think parties are fun," she said. What happened with him today, actually, was a stellar example of why parties weren't so much fun as they were fertile ground for bad decisions, but she didn't say that. Instead she said, "Everything's just too noisy and crowded and sweaty. No offense. I know you're a party veteran or something."

"Well… not so much," he said. "Only sort of. Close to retiring, really. My definition of fun is more like sleeping in on weekends and watching Netflix." He smiled, but there was something behind that smile—a sliver of vulnerability that hinted this wasn't something he normally said to other people, especially not to his circle of athlete friends—that made her soften, that briefly pulled her out of the regret and longing clotting inside of her.

"And when was the last time _you_ had fun?" she said. "In the sleeping in and Netflix way."

"Hmm," he said. "I guess yesterday was the first time in a while." He faced her too, one elbow propping him up on the rail. "When we were at the Observatory."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's not sleeping in or Netflix, but it's close. Better, actually. Definitely one of my most memorable memories." His expression turned puzzled. "What's up with that look? You're judging me, aren't you? It's not that bad, I really did have fun…"

 _It's not that bad, I really did have fun…_ His last sentence echoed in her mind.

But it _was_ bad, she found herself thinking. It was bad because he was stretching himself thin, and he was bound to burn out soon, and she was worried for him already. But it was also bad because, apparently, yesterday held as much meaning for him as it did for her. Images from their time at the Observatory flooded her mind. She could still remember the warmth of the dying sun, the colors it bled into the sky; she could still remember the cool breeze on her skin, the rustling dry grass under her feet, the way she reached for his hand and the way he'd clasped it back like it was his lifeline; she could still remember, most of all, the complete silence in her mind: it was just the sun and the wind and the grass and Barry beside her, vulnerable before her, opening himself up to her. Those moments were so singular that they seemed separate from the flow of time, like glistening crystals in its murky waters; and she knew she'd always look back on them with an ache, knowing that there was never going to be moments like those again. She'd relived those moments repeatedly that morning, before her friends came over, and she'd found herself thinking, _When I'm with him, I never want the moment to end._

And _this_ , this between them now, was another one of those moments. The night sky was flung with stars, and echoes from the music inside were still pulsing through her; she could still feel the ghost of his hands on her waist, pulling her close; his lips on her ear; his breath on her skin; his bright, bright eyes, fixed on her in the dark, like she was the only real thing in that amorphous mass of light and sound and shadowed bodies. She wanted something just like this, she thought, her mind latching on to the lyrics of the song playing; she wanted an endless array of moments like this, with him. She wanted to stand with him under all kinds of night skies, watch with him all kinds of sunsets; she wanted the banter, the aimless talks over the phone, the undercurrent of tenderness beneath it all.

She hadn't been aware of it, but as these thoughts raced through her mind, she had drawn closer to him, as surely gravity draws all things to the earth's center.

"It's pretty bad," she said, her voice quiet. She was finding it difficult to speak; the words were forced, rushed breaths from her mouth. "It's pretty bad when your definition of fun is being with someone who can't sing or dance and who thinks parties are lame."

He let out a laugh. His tone was teasing but subdued. "And who'll never admit my jokes are funny, and who thinks I talk too much and work too little."

"Mmm," she said. Her longing was swelling inside her, cresting like a wave; her eyes flickered to his, and she thought dimly how wrong Jax was about eye contact and seduction, because at this moment she felt like _she_ was the one being drawn into his pull. "That person sounds awful. Wouldn't want to be her."

"No, she's not awful at all," he said. His lips lifted into a small smile. "She's someone who listens to me, believes in me, makes me laugh…"

He trailed off, and his eyes were a piercing, brilliant green as he searched hers—they drew her in, entranced her, cast a spell over her. She couldn't look away. Time ceased to exist. There was only that moment, stretching on to infinity.

And then something shifted in his eyes. Maybe he'd felt it, too—maybe he'd felt that pull of the moment, that teetering on the edge of a cliff, that breathless anticipation for the giddy, headlong rush of the fall.

He continued speaking, his voice low and lilting. "She's the smartest"—cautiously, he lifted a hand, his eyes still trained on hers—"most determined"—he brought his fingers to her face, and Caitlin couldn't breathe, not when the air between them was thrumming with anticipation—"most willful someone I know." His touch was so light, so feather-light on her skin; her fingers tightened around the rail, but she didn't dare speak or move; all words congealed in her throat, and her body was completely under the thrall of his touch.

"I think," he said, his fingers brushing her cheek, lingering over the delicate upward slope of the bone, "that anyone…"—his hand moved to graze the back of her neck, his callouses rough on the soft skin there—"…would want to be her…"—his breath ghosted her lashes, and through her half-lidded gaze she could see the flecks of gold in his warm green eyes—"…and anyone…"—he was so close now, so close that she could feel the touch of each whispered word on her lips—"…would _want_ her."

And, in the next dizzying moment, he tilted his face down and kissed her full on the lips.

It was awkward at first. Caitlin had tiptoed up at the same time that he'd lowered to kiss her, so the result was a collision rather than a gentle touch of the lips. She had no idea what to do with her hands, so one was still white from clutching the rail, while the other hung limply on her side. She didn't even lean in any further, so aside from Barry's hand on the back of their neck, they weren't really touching.

Then, only a heartbeat later, Caitlin pulled away abruptly, as if she were pulling herself out of a dream to witness it before it dissolved and receded in her unconscious.

She felt dazed and her breathing was light and shallow, but Barry was still there, holding her face in his hands, looking at her with a question in his eyes.

So it wasn't a dream. She was fully awake, and they had just kissed.

 _They had just kissed._

"You have _got_ to stop doing that," Barry said, his voice a strangled groan, tugging her lower lip free from her teeth with a swipe of his thumb. Still dazed, she duly released it, not even realizing what she was doing. "It drives me crazy," he said, his voice low and rough. His thumb hovered above her lip for a moment before grazing over it lightly to soothe the sting of her bite.

Her eyes flickered to his again, and the look he gave her drew her back into his thrall. She found herself leaning closer, closer, until her hands were resting tentatively on his chest, and he wasted no time in falling into her, cupping her face and wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her flush against him; and then he was kissing her again, first a cautious peck, and then a lingering one; and when she responded by knotting her hands in his shirt, wanting more but not knowing what she wanted, he traced his tongue along her lower lip in silent entreaty; on instinct she parted her lips; his tongue slid in, splitting her mouth open to him—

She gasped into the kiss, overwhelmed. With each brush of his lips against hers she felt the rush of blood in her veins, the surge of fire in her stomach; she clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring her to her body, keeping her from being swept away by this whirlpool of sensations. It was a fevered kiss, it was a breathless kiss, and he only pulled away when they were both starved for air. Even then, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath skimming her cheeks; he kissed her lightly on the forehead, on the tip of her nose, on her already swollen lips; and she basked in his kisses like a sunflower turning its face to the sun.

"…sure this isn't going too fast?"

Caitlin blinked. Her eyes fluttered open, and Barry's face slowly came into focus. Their foreheads were still touching.

"Too fast?" she repeated, her mind hazy.

"I, uh, guess I got a little carried away?" he said, letting out a nervous laugh. "I was thinking I'd ask you out on a proper date first, and then maybe ten more after that, and then I could probably attempt to kiss you without getting slapped…"

"Ask… _me_ out?"

"Yeah," he said. His smile was apprehensive. "Yeah. I… wasn't sure when to ask. I mean, we've only known each other for two weeks—"

 _Two weeks,_ Caitlin repeated numbly in her mind. _It's only been_ _ **two weeks**_ _—_

The haze lifted. The spell shattered. The scales fell from her eyes.

She had only known Barry for _two weeks_ , and already she wasn't acting like herself anymore. Even Barry knew that. He'd been expecting her to slap him for kissing her, and instead she'd surrendered herself to the kiss. She'd _wanted_ to be kissed. They might have met halfway for it, but there was no doubt that _she_ had leaned in first, no doubt that _she_ had encouraged him to deepen it, no doubt that _she_ , too, had been completely carried away.

What was happening to her? How had she gone from regarding romance with cool disinterest to tumbling right into it, like a car careening off a slippery road, hurtling towards a ravine? She thought she had approached the entire thing rationally, just as she would any scientific problem, but all rationality fled her when she needed it the most. She was supposed to have this under control. She was supposed to keep _herself_ under control—

"—and, well, two weeks isn't a long time, and knowing you I didn't want to rush things—"

With shaky hands, she pushed herself away from him. His brow creased. His arm fell from her waist, but he didn't move away.

"Knowing me?" she finally said. "What does—what does that even mean?"

"I mean," he said, making a vague gesture, "you were so closed off and hard to get—"

Panic surged inside her, constricting her airways. "So now you think I'm _easy_ —"

"What— _no_ , of course not—"

The words rushed out of her mouth like a flood. "—you think I'm easy because we haven't gone on a date and because I—we—kissed—and I didn't—I didn't _slap_ you—"

"No—Cait—please, listen to me"—he reached for her arm, but she shied away from his touch—"I didn't mean it that way, I'm an idiot, I say the most stupid things when I—"

But she couldn't listen to him anymore. Her throat was closing up. Her vision swam. She didn't understand what was happening to her, but she did know that things _were_ going too fast. Things were spiraling out of her control. Barry was right. They had only known each other for two weeks. They hadn't even gone out on a date. Yet here they were, in the aftermath of a heated kiss; here she was, in the aftermath of her _first_ kiss, already head over heels in lo—

Her blood ran cold. _No._ No, she wasn't in love with him. She couldn't be. Two weeks was nothing. This thing between them was _nothing_.

"I have to go," she said, but as she turned away from him, he moved to block her path. Had she been looking at him closely, she would have seen in his eyes a panic that mirrored her own, but her eyes were firmly trained on the door.

"Cait, can we just… can we talk about this—"

"Barry. Please." Her voice was sharp with desperation. "I have to go."

He trailed off. Understanding seemed to dawn in his eyes.

He took a step back.

Without another glance at him, Caitlin swept past him and fled, the silence between them ringing in her ears.

* * *

 **Notes:** Um… Don't kill me? On the upside, I plan on writing the next chapter from Barry's point of view. Thoughts?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes:** Oh my god, thank for all your reviews! I had so much fun reading your reactions. I'm so lucky to have you guys. I feel really bad for this late post, though, since I did say mid-July, but things got busy. If you follow me on Tumblr, you might know that I took a part-time job in addition to my day job, so I had to get off social media for awhile to meet the deadline for the part-time job. But I'm back with Barry's POV, so… forgive me?

 _(To guest reviewer Cara: Don't worry, I never get tired of reading reviews, and I understand what you're getting at. I already have most of the story planned out, but thanks for your suggestions. It was sweet of you to want to help, knowing how difficult writing can be. Maybe I can use them in future stories. And yes, I really chose Barry's eyes to be green, haha. Thanks again!)_

 **Disclaimer:** The opinion mentioned here by Caitlin is from an article on Nautilus called "Cancer Isn't a Logic Problem" by Jim Kozubek.

* * *

After Caitlin had fled, Barry tried everything to get her to come around—if not to face him, then at least to talk to him. Or, at the very least, to _agree_ to talk to him.

He milled around her dorm that night, his hands clammy in his pockets; he didn't like its eerie silence, but he disliked enduring her silence even more. When, despite his vigilance, he didn't see her enter or emerge from the dark building, he left her a long, rambling text instead, which he had composed in white heat and had sent in a moment of mad courage, but which, he realized upon his nth reread, was mostly just gibberish. He fell into a fitful sleep with his phone still in hand, and then he jolted awake the next morning three hours before he usually got up, only to be devastated by an empty inbox. Then, in a haze of desperation, with the same mad courage that had possessed him to send that rambling text, he called her three times in succession, after which he realized, with the sudden clarity that only panic at the threshold of even more panic could produce, that he was being creepy; so he decided to remedy that—being unaware, in his state of mind, of how the attempt to remedy a situation can often exacerbate it—by leaving her voicemail.

"Hey Caitlin," he began, while pacing around his room, "uh, so, I know you don't want to talk to me yet, but… just give me a call if you do. Uh… yeah. I'll… hang up now, I guess. Bye."

And then, as his desperation wore on, he decided, in what would be the final link in his chain of bad decisions, to compose a funnily pathetic voicemail, so that even if she wasn't talking to him, he would at least have the solace of knowing that she was smiling because of him. And so, with a burst of adrenaline seasoned with the wild hope of a gambler looking to rake in millions even after successive losses, he sang:

" _Hey, I just kissed you,  
_ _And you just kissed me,  
_ _So here's a voicemail—  
_ _Call me maybe?"_

He even accompanied his singing with hand gestures—which, he would realize, could not be transmitted through voicemail in the first place.

He ran his hand through his hair and fisted, ran and fisted, ran and fisted, until there was a tingling sensation in his scalp; and then, suddenly exhausted from frustration and anxiety, he tossed his phone aside, plopped down on his bed, and groaned into his pillow.

 _God._ He had it bad, alright. He had it so bad it was pathetic. He hadn't reached this level of emotional loserhood since middle school, when he had pimples and braces and that brief unrequited crush on Iris that still made his stomach turn every time it crossed his mind.

…Okay, that was an exaggeration. Nothing beats that stomach-turning crush he had on Iris. Granted, there was some reason behind it—she was the only girl that talked to him then—but he still preferred to chalk it up to a pubescent, hormone-induced insanity.

Regardless, the devastation he felt was pretty familiar. He wasn't in the habit of denying his feelings, so he knew deep in his gut, with a certainty that circumvented rationality and defied his own notions of love, that he was in love with Caitlin Snow. Even if, right now, it felt a hell lot like pain, there was no doubt that he was in love.

It raised a lot of questions, of course, questions which even the ancients grappled with (Barry liked to imagine himself in a Greek chiton and laurels resting on his head when he was thinking about life), and which men and women are still asking today, but have believed answered by the prevailing cynicism surrounding love: What _is_ love? What is "true love," if it even exists? Can romantic love lead to true love, without the lengthy passage of time? What if love at first sight, or its cousin the whirlwind romance, was, in its noblest form, not just a product of intense physical attraction, but rather—as it seemed to be in his case—a lucid, bone-deep knowledge of being fated for each other…?

He didn't know. He didn't have answers. Besides, there were already enough stories about the catastrophic nature of falling in love too fast, so that to experience it meant certain doom for the relationship. And, knowing how sensible Caitlin was, she must have already come to that conclusion. Tomorrow, he could imagine, Caitlin would come up to him during lab and say, coolly, "I wasn't in possession of my rational faculties. That kiss was a mistake. We'll remain lab partners so I can ace this class, but this relationship will not cross any other boundary. Understood?"

No. He wouldn't survive it. He'd be heartbroken. He was already heartbroken just thinking about it.

He sighed, turning to lie on his back. God, he was such an idiot. He'd been so careful, too, in making sure she was comfortable with his touches, starting slowly and lightly but withdrawing if she gave any indication of being uncomfortable; and he'd been willing to do that for _months_ , at whatever pace she would allow, but—he raked his hands through his hair again, until the strands stood on end—best laid plans… and all that.

But, really, how could he resist her last night? How could he resist her in that—as she had put it herself— _evil_ dress, that dress that unraveled the iron self-control he'd resolved to maintain when it came to her? How could he resist her charm and wit onstage, the way she'd dazzled the audience with brilliant comebacks on taunts about her terrible singing? How could he resist her on that dance floor, the way she'd slid her hands up his chest, sly and appreciative; the way she'd turned her eyes away when his compliments made her shy? How could he resist her on that open balcony, under that starry night sky, feeling, for the first time, their longing constellating between them, pulling them towards each other, towards that inevitable first kiss? _How—?_

He was jolted from his thoughts by the shrill ringing of his phone, and he immediately set out to look for it under the sheets, his heart pounding in his chest— _Please let it be her please let it be her please let it be her—_

"Caitlin?"

There was a snort at the other end of the line.

His heart sank.

"Oh. Iris."

"That's no way to greet your best friend," Iris said, feigning offense. When he made no attempt to summon a more enthusiastic greeting, she made a sympathetic noise and said, "Still no word from her, huh?"

He felt around Wally's desk for the stress ball he kept there, and began tossing it sullenly. "No."

"Aren't you going to see her tomorrow for that class you have together?"

He groaned. "Tomorrow's ages away. Can you imagine if she still won't talk to me by then? We have _four hours_ of labtogether. Iris, that's torture."

"You drama queen," she said, laughing. "She just needs some time."

"You don't know her. She could ignore me forever if she sets her mind to it," he groaned. "Iriiis. _Iriiis._ I'm so sad. I'm so sad I could write a poem."

She sounded amused. "Like one of those spoken word things?"

"Nah, too long. Maybe like a haiku or something," he said. He caught the ball mid-air and gave it a vicious squeeze. " _I met a girl who broke my heart / So I'm going to make some art—_ "

"…that's about as good as your smelly fart."

"Hey, I resent that. My farts aren't smelly."

"They so are," she said. "Remember that time in my house when you farted after drinking a whole liter of milk? That was the grossest thing ever. Everyone had to retreat to the second floor until the coast was clear."

He couldn't help laughing. "God, that was so embarrassing. Joe was so nice about it, too. He was all—"

"' _Iris, don't make fun of Barry. He's just a little lactose-intolerant, that's all,'"_ Iris said, mimicking her father's tone, laughing in between words.

But the laughter in him faded when he heard the word _lactose_ , the memory of his last lab experiment with Caitlin—the way she'd jut her chin slightly to the right when she was thinking, the sparkling challenge in her eyes when they made the bet—buffeting him with such force that it felt difficult to breathe.

"Bar?" Iris said. "You still there?"

"Yeah," he said. "Barely. It feels like my heart's been ripped out of my chest and shredded into pieces."

"Mmm," she said. "Not a bad metaphor."

"Thanks," he said. Even in this state, he couldn't resist a compliment, and Iris knew it. "Are you going to use it in one of your articles?"

"I don't think so. Hardly the stuff of news."

"Sure it is. I can see the headline already: 'CCU Cutie in Dire Need of Heart Transplant—Says Heart Has Been Shredded to Pieces by the Heartless Caitlin Snow.'"

"Did you just really refer to yourself as 'CCU Cutie'?"

"I did."

"Ugh. You know how much I hate that feature. It should be banned from the school paper."

"I was on last year's list. It's a nice confidence boost."

"Since Scott made editor, I thought we'd finally be able to scrap it, but _nooo_ , he's all, 'It's our most popular feature, and no matter how vapid it is, we can't get rid of it.' Imagine!" she huffed. "Where's the journalistic integrity he keeps harping about, huh? Where?"

"If I made it a poem," he said, spacing out in the middle of her well-worn rant, "will you publish it?"

Iris paused. "Make what a poem?"

"The heart-shredding bit. Or the haiku, whichever's better."

"Bar. Newspapers publish articles, not poetry."

"Same thing. It's still writing."

"I could dismantle that premise in, like, ten different ways."

"You probably could," he allowed. "But I'm sad. You can't fight me when I'm sad."

Iris gave a long-suffering sigh. "Okay look, Bar, you _have_ to stop moping around—"

"But I want to keep moping around—"

"—because moping around won't make her want to talk to you."

He winced. "Ow. Harsh."

"But true." He heard shuffling at the other end of the line. "I was going to skip grocery shopping to work on an article, but since you're in this state, I'm going out to haul you out of your room."

"Nooo. You can't make me."

"Oh yes I can. Now get up, call Wally, and be outside of your dorm in ten."

"Nooo. Nooooo."

"Bartholomew Henry Allen, you will do as I say—"

"Nooooo—"

"—unless you want me to spam Caitlin with middle-school Barry Allen."

"—ooooo—" Barry stopped abruptly when he realized the implications of what Iris said. "Hey!" he cried. "I deleted all traces of middle-school Barry Allen from your laptop!"

"I have backup copies online, dummy."

" _Lies."_

"Huh, would you look at that, I also happen to have _emo_ middle-school Barry Allen on my phone—"

"Alright, _alright_ ," he relented, finally getting to his feet. Iris was notorious for making good on her threats. "I'm standing. God, I hate you sometimes."

"Yeah, yeah." He could almost see the grin on her face. "Love you too, Bar."

 **. . .**

Barry loved Iris, he really did, but sometimes she didn't seem to understand—or she blithely sidestepped attempts to understand—that what was comforting for her wasn't necessarily comforting for him (or for anyone else, for that matter). Right now, as he considered that tendency of hers, he was staring at the entrance of the grocery where Wally, Jesse, and Eddie were standing, chatting amiably with each other and oblivious to their approaching presence.

"You told Jesse and Eddie to come along?" he balked. "Did it occur to you that maybe, _juuust_ maybe, being a _fifth wheel_ is the last thing I need right now?"

Iris paused. "Actually, no," she said. "But we're practically family, anyway. You won't feel like a fifth wheel. And, hey, you never mentioned feeling like a fifth wheel before."

"Well, now I am," Barry groaned. "I mean, okay, Jesse's fine, but I already told you that things are kind of, you know, awkward with Eddie—"

"Bar, we've had this conversation already," Iris said. "Eddie says he doesn't find it awkward between you two. He never has."

"Still," Barry said, not knowing how else to explain to Iris that he and Eddie just didn't click the same way he did with Wally or Ray or even Cisco. It wasn't that Eddie wasn't nice or friendly, because he was, and in fact Barry even felt bad that he couldn't get along better with such a great guy. But there was just something about him that seemed a little too great, a little too perfect, and he wasn't spilling all the messy details about Caitlin to a guy like that.

He sighed. In any case, there was one thing Eddie did spectacularly well that he had no reservations about: Eddie made Iris happy. One only had to watch the way they looked at each other to know how in love they still were, even after two years of being together. It was, in fact, the same way his parents had used to look at each other; and, he wondered, was it the same way he looked at Caitlin…?

At the thought of her he felt the familiar misery rising in him again, and he took a quick look at his phone to see if he had messages or calls from her.

…No such luck, of course. This cycle of tremulous hope and sinking despondence he went through every time he checked his phone was bound to be bad for his heart.

To distract himself from the gnawing disappointment, he tuned back in to what Iris was saying—had she been talking this entire time?—and he managed to catch the tail-end of her monologue. "…and anyway," she said, "Eddie can probably give you a more balanced perspective on this whole situation."

He looked at her blankly. "Balanced perspective?" he repeated. "Are you implying that mine's imbalanced?"

Iris shot a pointed look at his hair, and he realized that it was still standing on end after he'd worked his anxiety out on it. "I am implying that you, Barry Allen," she said, "are a nervous wreck, and any perspective besides yours would sound balanced."

"I'm not a nervous wreck," he protested weakly, running his fingers through his hair in a desperate attempt to flatten down the strands.

Iris only snorted in response.

When they were finally within hearing distance of the other three, Jesse was the first to greet them. "Hey," she said, her face lighting up. "Nice hair. Is that a new thing you're trying, or…?"

"Definitely the _or_ ," Wally laughed, clasping Barry's hand and thumping him on the back.

"Ha ha," Barry said. He and Eddie exchanged a brief nod of greeting, as usual, and then he promptly turned away when the latter slung his arm around Iris's waist and kissed her on the lips by way of greeting. They did that often enough by now so that all three of them had stopped calling them out for their PDA, but they strived to see as little of it as possible. "At least I _have_ hair."

Jesse raised an eyebrow and turned to Wally. "Was that supposed to be an insult?"

"If it was, it was a pretty bad one," Wally agreed, lightly squeezing her hand. "Considering that I do have hair."

"Right," she said, reaching to ruffle his short curls. "Well, Barry, that's pretty insulting, not to dignify someone with a proper insult."

"Mm-hmm," Wally said. "Haha-emoji that."

Jesse turned sharply to him. "Oh, come on. I said that _one time—"_

"What? I think it's cute. I'm not making fun of you." Wally paused. "Okay, maybe a little."

"Wallace Rudolph West…"

"I mean, who blurts out emoji reactions in real life, when you have, you know, _facial expressions?"_

Barry shook his head, a smile creeping up his face, even as he felt a slight pang of envy at their teasing. Their relationship wasn't like Iris and Eddie's, with their vibe of still being madly in love, but there was an easy familiarity between them that stemmed from being friends for a long time, so that they couldn't seem to shake off acting as friends even if they'd been dating for a little over half a year already.

He wondered what he and Caitlin looked like, from an outsider's point of view. They definitely weren't Iris and Eddie—he and Caitlin bickered too much, he mused, and for the life of him, he can't imagine Caitlin being sweetly affectionate, the way Iris was with Eddie. It was more likely that he'd smother her with affection while she'd constantly duck out of his hugs. They weren't Wally and Jesse, either—the way he and Caitlin bantered was a lot flirtier (courtesy of him, of course). So, what were they…?

"Uh, earth to Barry?" he heard Jesse saying.

He blinked, his eyes refocusing on their faces again.

Jesse looked amused. "Well? Are you going to tell me what happened, or what?"

"Tell you what?" he repeated, realizing that it was the third time in the past half an hour or so that he'd spaced out while someone was talking to him. He thumbed his phone again out of habit, despite knowing that it hadn't pinged with a message.

"Wally said to give you a break because you're heartbroken," she said.

"I didn't say I was heartbroken," Barry said to Wally.

"You didn't need to, man," he said. "I was with you in the room last night, you know. All your sighing woke me up."

"I—really? You were in the room?"

Wally and Jesse exchanged looks.

"He's so far gone," Jesse said.

"Yup," Wally agreed.

"Okay, guys," Iris said, with the tone she often used when she'd come to an important decision. "So here's the plan. I just need to pick up a few things from the grocery, and then we can all head to Jitters for coffee."

"'Pick up a few things'?" Wally said. "You mean, ransack all the sale items?"

Eddie snorted, placing his hand affectionately on the small of Iris's back. "We all know we're just here to carry your things."

"No," Iris said, "we're here because Barry needs emotional support."

"How is your grocery shopping going to give Barry emotional support?" Jesse said.

"It got him out of his dorm?" Iris said. "Anyway, I'll be quick, I promise. I only need a few things. Swear to God."

All four of them exchanged knowing looks. This was definitely not going to be quick.

 **. . .**

"So, tell me about this girl," Jesse said, as they ambled along the aisle of chips. Iris was browsing the section of sale items, and Eddie was weighing the merits of two different brands of chicken breasts. "She must be something if she can do this to you in two weeks."

"Yeah, she is something," Barry said. He scanned the shelves of chips in front of him without really seeing them, taking his favorites off the shelf—Doritos (Nacho Cheese), Cheetos (Jalapeño), Ruffles (Sour Cream)—and tucking them under his arm, until Jesse prompted him to dump them in Wally's basket. "Let's see, something about her… Well, I'm taking your dad's class with her."

"No way. Who's the unlucky victim?"

"Your dad's not a villain, you know," Barry said, amused at her antagonism. "Anyone would be lucky to be his student. He's the most influential scientist in America, the founder of one of the top research facilities in the world—"

"—and like, the most overprotective dad in the universe," Jesse scoffed. "What would you feel if _your_ dad moved halfway across the country to teach in the university you're going to, just because you told him you were seeing someone?"

"He's hella scary," Wally said, who was about a foot away from them. "I still avoid him when I see him. I'm pretty sure he has heat vision. Might fry me on the spot when he sees me…"

"He seems to like me," Barry said.

"That's because you're not dating his daughter," Wally said. "Keep up, man."

"Did he ever mention me to you, by any chance?" Barry said to Jesse.

She stared at him. "You know, you _really_ have to tone down on that nerd crush you have on my dad. It creeps me out."

Barry laughed. "I'm kidding. It's just fun to see you squirm."

"Oh, it's fun to see _me_ squirm," she said, placing a hand on her hip. "Well, I'll have you know that he _did_ mention you—"

"He did?" Barry swiveled to her. "He _actually_ did?"

"—but I'm not telling you, because it's fun to see _you_ squirm," she finished, smug.

"Jesse. Come on."

"No," she said breezily.

"Jesse. This is a life-or-death situation. This could make or break my career."

"Let me think about it… No."

Barry turned to Wally. "Do you ever win fights with her?"

"…Nah."

"He knows he can't win," Jesse said.

"I only pick fights I can win," Wally said. "And to date, I've picked zero fights." He held up a Tostitos salsa dip and a creamy spinach dip, one in each hand. "Which one should I get?"

"Salsa," they said in unison.

"Nice. I thought so too."

"So, who _is_ this girl?" Jesse said. "Wait, don't tell me—is it Caitlin? The one you were with during the sing-off last night?"

Barry stilled, and he unconsciously fingered his stubbornly silent phone again.

Jesse looked at him with amusement.

"You're way too obvious."

"Hey, be nice," he said weakly. He placed a hand over his heart. "I'm heartbroken. I'm very fragile right now."

"I mean, you were obvious even onstage," she went on. "Complimenting her over the microphone? Really?"

"What can I say," he said. "Smooth is my middle name."

Jesse snorted. Wally, without looking at them, also snorted.

"Hey, you there," Barry said to Wally, with comically feigned swagger, "are you dissing me? Huh?"

"If you were actually smooth I won't be dissing you," Wally hollered.

"You guys were pretty entertaining, though," Jesse said. "And I've never seen Caitlin like that. I've always had this image of her as really smart, but also really uptight…"

"Wait, you _know_ her?"

"I know _of_ her," Jesse corrected. "I attended a few talks that she also attended, and she always asks the best questions. One time—oooh, bacon-flavored chips—one time, in this talk about the latest cancer research, she asked the panel, 'Is it possible to cure cancer, once and for all?'" They paused as Jesse took the bacon-flavored chips and dumped it in Wally's basket. "And she really caused a stir, you know, because here were all these hotshot scientists saying that they've been able to figure out the molecular changes that lead to cancer, so _obviously_ , they're getting at a cure, right? But then she goes something like, 'From an evolutionary perspective, cancer cells are continuously evolving, so we may get better at treating it, but we may never actually cure it,' like, it was probably going to be a continuous effort instead of something with a definite end-goal." They ambled over to the biscuits aisle, and Barry didn't say a word, greedy to hear about Caitlin from someone else. "Kind of like how multiple sclerosis researchers approach multiple sclerosis, you know? And she didn't sound like a know-it-all at all, she was pretty respectful and appreciative of the ground that cancer research has already covered, but I'm pretty sure that she stepped on some egos that day. It was pretty amazing. Hm… I think I'll get some oatmeal," she said. "Are you getting oatmeal, too? No? I think Wally wants some, he's been trying this whole healthy-eating thing lately, but obviously he's not trying too hard…"

Barry made a noncommittal noise, zoning out of the scene. He could already imagine the Caitlin that Jesse had painted in her story: He could imagine the figure she cut, emerging from the sea of students in that classy scoop-neck blouse she wore on their non-date, her hair gathered in a neat ponytail, her face young and fresh. He could see her standing before the microphone, in front of a panel of distinguished scientists, curious and unafraid. She probably didn't see it herself, but whenever she was explaining some scientific theory or process to him, a change would come over her: she would sit straighter and speak more clearly; her eyes would be alight with pleasure, her cheeks slightly flushed from excitement, her posture a picture of quiet confidence. It was no doubt one of the most attractive things about her.

To be sure, it wasn't the sort of thing that people usually found attractive—it wasn't even something that he would take notice of in the first place. Linda, for instance, was attractive in the more conventional sense: she dressed well and she dressed confidently; she was charming and she knew it; and, if she chose to, she could use her charm to her advantage. When he first met her, in fact, her presence was positively magnetic. He wasn't the only guy who looked when she sauntered into the party, wearing a purple dress that dipped alluringly down her back; and when she looked right at him and smiled that mega-watt smile of hers, he felt like the luckiest guy in the room.

And then there was Patty. His blockmates had shipped them the moment they started talking, but even before that he'd found her attractive, too: She had that bubbly charm and approachability about her that neither Linda, with her breezy confidence, nor Caitlin, with her air of impenetrability, had. She was hardworking and always willing to lend a hand, really the quintessential girl-next-door. But sometimes, Barry had a feeling that she was nice because she wanted people to like her. He felt it in the way she kept insisting that he had great ideas, even when he knew they weren't all that, or in the way she was reluctant to speak up in a group if it meant rocking the boat. It wasn't bad, per se. He had the same tendency, as Iris would be quick to remind him, and it wasn't the only thing they had in common—they liked the same science pages, shared the same (well, almost the same) memes. In fact, had he not met Caitlin, he felt like his friendship with Patty would have eventually progressed into a romantic relationship.

But the thing is—he dimly registered Wally, Jesse, and Eddie's conversation about which brand of rolled oats was better—the thing is, he _did_ meet Caitlin, and he'd never been so intrigued by anyone else in his life. She was smart and stubborn, and, unlike Patty, unafraid to show it; she was self-assured, but without the showiness of Linda's confidence; and she had no need for the effusive charm that most girls have been taught in order to endear themselves to others. And yet, for all her indifference to people's opinions, she could be caught off-guard by the simplest things, like his compliments or his staring, and this baffled him to no end.

He remembered the first time they'd met, and he remembered how completely disarmed at how little social tip-toeing she did around people. And, since they'd been in the damp darkness under the bleachers, he remembered wondering if her blunt manner matched her appearance: Would she look as disagreeable as she seemed? Would her mouth be twisted into a perpetual frown? Would her face be angled as sharp as her words? But he couldn't have been farther from the truth. When, unable to rein in his curiosity, he finally held the flashlight to her face, what he saw was not a sour, disagreeable face: what he saw was a _kind_ face, blinking uncertainly at him in the harsh light. A serious face—one not given to smiling, he could tell—but with soft brown eyes, delicate cheekbones, and a rosebud mouth… which he must have stared at for a good while, because she'd grown uncomfortable under his gaze, and the way her brow had creased in that brief moment of vulnerability intrigued him even more. How could she meet him head-on for nearly every line of banter, and then be disarmed by something as simple as his staring? What was it, exactly, that made her shift from clipped annoyance to speechless bafflement? What did she look like when she smiled?

That was how it all started, he supposed, looking back—it all started with curiosity. How could he have known, really, that something as innocent as curiosity, and the casual observation that it took to satisfy it, would morph into a keen attention on her, which would then transmogrify into a consuming desire to find out more about her, to be with her? How could he have known that curiosity would lead him deeper and deeper into the walled garden that was Caitlin Snow's mind, until he realized that he never wanted to leave?

He had no way of knowing—at this point, Wally, Jesse, and Eddie had finally decided on a brand of oats, and Eddie said something about dragging Iris away from the sale, and Jesse said something like _Let's talk more later, it's weird to have a heart-to-heart in the checkout line_ —really, he had no way of knowing that this was how things would play out, especially soon after things with Linda had ended. He couldn't have known that he would have been so enchanted by Caitlin, by her smiles—whether it was a full smile, or an amused half-smile, or a suppressed smile, or, God forbid, that slow, sly smile she'd given him last night, when they were onstage and when they were dancing.

He still remembered the first time she'd really smiled at him, and how it felt like finally finding the key to a locked room. It was during their first lab class together, and he'd been making a string of jokes to gauge her sense of humor. He was fast getting discouraged because she either ignored him or gave him The Look—he didn't know anyone else who managed to convey haughtiness, disapproval, and (he had to admit, at the risk of sounding masochistic) sexiness, with a single raised eyebrow—but, when he made the diatom joke, her expression finally changed: Her eyes lit up; the corners of her lips lifted, and she quickly bit down on her bottom lip to suppress the blooming smile, no doubt not wanting to give him the satisfaction of laughing at his joke.

It was the most endearing thing he'd ever seen.

Every time she smiled at him like that, he felt the entire world—the lights, the voices, the landscape—go soft, and all he wanted to do, as the Beatles sang, was to hold her hand. All he wanted to do was hold her and tell her that she was the most beautiful thing in that moment; to tell her, above all, that he wanted the rest of his life to have moments of softness and beauty like that, with her…

He'd tell that to her straight, the next time he sees her. He'd apologize for what he'd said, and he'd tell her that he was as scared as she was, but he'd be willing to give it a try. He couldn't live with himself if he gave up on the possibility of _them_ so easily. He had to try. He had to hope that she wanted to give it a try, too.

Now, if only she would talk to him…

 **. . .**

Jitters was, well, a rather jittery affair, at least for Barry.

Once they were seated, and once he'd convinced everyone else to pay for his drink because he was brokenhearted, he'd felt inexplicably nervous about telling his story. It was the first time, after all, that he'd recalled the whole thing with Caitlin from start to finish, instead of the piecemeal updates he'd been giving Iris and Wally; and he feared that once he finished the telling, they'd all laugh at him for being ridiculously dramatic, and he'd have no choice but to hide his unease and laugh along with them, too.

But he went on and told the story, anyway. He started slowly at first, faltering and frequently losing his train of thought; but, as he caught the rhythm of it, he told it faster and faster until, towards the end, he had to stop for a few moments to catch his breath.

"Wow," Jesse ventured. "All that in two weeks?"

He tensed. "It sounds impossible, I know—"

"Well, Steve Trevor and Diana fell in love in three days," Iris mused. "So it's not impossible."

"But that was a _movie_ ," Wally said. "Nothing's impossible in the movies."

Eddie said, " _I_ fell in love with Iris the moment I saw her"—a chorus of groans—"so, based on personal experience, I would declare Barry's situation not impossible."

Iris rolled her eyes, but not even that could mask the brilliance of her smile. "You sap," she said.

"Geez, you two, get a room," Wally said.

"Are you sure you want that?" Iris said sweetly. "Need I remind you that Eddie's room is two doors away from yours?"

"Oh, gross!"

"Iris, TMI!" Barry said.

"Huh, not sure if I'm grossed out or turned on," Jesse said.

"Jesse!" Wally said, horrified.

"Now _that_ was definitely TMI," Eddie said, and they all dissolved into fits of laughter.

When they finally recovered, Iris said, "But, seriously Bar, it's not impossible, but it's probably best not to rush it."

"If she pushes you away, don't give up," Eddie added, "but don't push back, either. Give her some space."

"If it doesn't work out, don't take it personally," Jesse said. "Knowing her, I'm pretty you'll always be second to her work—if, you know, you're even gonna make it to her priorities in the first place."

"Priority," Iris corrected. "If there are a lot of it then it won't be _the_ most important."

"Right, just accept you'll never be her priority."

Barry blinked. "…Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"I'm just being honest here."

"Honesty isn't always the best policy, you know," Wally said.

"Oh, really now," Jesse said, turning to him. "Are you saying that you've been _lying_ to me, Wallace Rudolph West?"

"No! Of course not!" Wally backtracked. "I'm just saying it's, uh, you know, strategic sometimes, to lie—"

"Did you just call lying _strategic?"_

Wally looked at the rest of them helplessly. "A little help here?"

"Nah," Iris said, grinning. "I think I'll enjoy watching you dig your grave."

"Or who knows? Maybe this is the first fight you'll win," Barry said.

"Shall I take bets?" Eddie said. "But someone'll have to bet on Wally…"

"Ha ha, very funny guys…"

They all laughed, and the conversation, as conversations usually do, moved on to other topics and other lives. Barry tried to follow it, but after a few minutes, his attention wandered again. Talking about Caitlin gave him temporary reprieve from the pain of her silence, and he was grateful to have friends whom he didn't mind rambling to; but, as he checked his phone for the nth time that day and found no messages or missed calls from her, he couldn't help but feel the anxiety creeping back in again.

He sighed. He'd get through to her eventually, he thought bleakly, trying to stay positive. At the very least, she can't possibly ignore him for four full hours of lab, right?

* * *

The next day, Barry woke to warm sunshine filtering in through the blinds, creating bands of light around his legs and torso; and, without quite being aware of it, he rolled out of bed with a slight smile. Human beings have a peculiar way of interpreting meteorological phenomena as somehow prophetic of the day ahead, and Barry, being an average human being—albeit slightly better-looking than the average male, or so he liked to think in good humor—saw the beautiful day as a good omen. Surely, the soft rays of sunlight proclaimed, today Caitlin would speak to him. Surely, today she would listen to his apology, smile, and tell him that she was willing to give them a chance, but that she wanted to take it slow. Surely, today she would, as part of 'taking it slow,' allow him to hold her hand, or brush his lips to her temple, or, if he were well and truly lucky, steal a kiss from her lips…

He was in a better mood than he'd been the day before, thanks to the fine sunny weather, and he went about preparing for their class together with a bounce in his step. He whistled in the shower, shampooing and scrubbing to the beat of JT's "Can't Stop the Feeling!" He styled his hair with gusto, using his trusty matte styling clay (low shine, firm hold). He chose his outfit with care, finally settling on a maroon polo shirt, and he left, with a crafty smirk, the collar slightly upturned. He rehearsed in feverish whispers—Wally was still asleep, after all—the script he'd composed to win her back, one that bore the obligatory stamp of approval of another member of the female species (Iris's). He tried on various expressions designed to make Caitlin Snow melt—pun completely intended. These expressions included, but were not limited to: the boyish grin, the sheepish grin, the wolfish grin; the puppy dog, the cocky smirk, the smolder.

Having thus prepared himself for battle—because that was what this was, a battle to sway Caitlin from the trappings of her own reasoning, a battle to convince her that his lowly self, with his meager virtues of devastating handsomeness and rather decent kisses, along with his wealth of bad science jokes, was worthy of her affection—he lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and nodded at his reflection.

"Looking good, buddy, looking good," he said to himself. "You can do this. You got this. I mean, she kissed you back, didn't she?"

 **. . .**

The time was quarter to eight. The battlefield was the laboratory, with its wide, gray desks, its shelves of bottled chemicals, and its faint smell of formaldehyde. The hero, the warrior of love marching into battle, was himself, the dashing Bartholomew Henry Allen; and the heroine—he was about to say damsel in distress, if only out of habit of this particular narrative, but he quickly corrected it, already hearing said damsel's vehement protests in his mind—was the fair Lady Caitlin Tannhauser Snow, icy, sharp-tongued, beautiful beyond belief, and in whom he had met his match.

Before he approached her, his eyes circled the perimeter. There were only three other people there, all engrossed in their phones. They would be no threat. Hartley Rathaway, the assigned and necessary villain for this narrative, was, by a stroke of good fortune, not around. The coast was clear.

He moved in, quietly, stealthily, so as not to startle her from her reading. He slipped into his seat beside her, dropping his bag with a whisper on the floor. She did not look up; did not, in fact, give any indication of hearing his approach. No matter; he expected this. The warrior of love was always prepared, and the warrior of love did not retreat at the first rebuff.

"Hi Caitlin," he said, tone cheery but not chirpy, smile warm but not too wide. "So, uh… how was your Sunday?"

Not even a glance. Her posture remained the same, and her eyes firmly trained on her tablet. She was highlighting sections of a paragraph from their textbook for this class, and she gave no indication of hearing him. Her iciness may have frozen any other man, but certainly not a warrior of love, and certainly not _this_ warrior of love.

"My Sunday was great," he said, conversational. The trick was to bait her in with casualness. "I went grocery shopping with Iris and Wally and their significant others—oh, you might know Wally's girlfriend, Jesse. She's Dr. Wells's daughter, but she doesn't like telling people that. She mentioned that she saw you at a talk about the latest cancer research?"

Still nothing. She had moved on to the next page now, and, as far as he could tell, she was reading intently; she didn't seem like she was rereading the same paragraph over and over again, in what would have been an anxious tell. He went on, deliberately provocative, "Apparently you told the scientists that they might never actually cure cancer. That was a pretty bold statement."

Her finger paused mid-highlight, and she narrowed her eyes at him. _Bingo,_ he crowed inwardly. There was nothing like a scientific debate to draw her out of her shell.

"You wouldn't understand," she said. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm studying."

" _I_ wouldn't understand?" he said. "Try me, Caitlin."

She lapsed back into silence, not rising to his taunt.

 _Damn,_ he grimaced _._ He decided to switch gears. "Uh, so, I kind of spent my Sunday morning practicing my singing," he said. "Did you… um, get my voicemail?"

Silence. She moved on to the next page.

"Well, if you didn't," he went on, "I could give you a live encore. Privately, even. And free of charge."

Not even a flicker in her eyes. She had erected a fortress around her, and her defenses were airtight.

"Or not," he muttered. He knew she'd be stubborn, but he didn't expect her to act like he didn't even _exist_ , and from the stony quality of her silence, he had a feeling that he was bound to give up before she gave in. Even warriors of love, he thought, would wither without, well, love…

Still, he mustered up the courage for one last blind stab at conversation. "So… care to let me know what you're studying?" He made a show of digging his tablet from his bag. "I should probably try that, studying."

No response.

He couldn't take this. He finally turned away from her, feeling so dejected that he couldn't even pretend to study. How the hell was he going to get through to her? How long did she plan on keeping this up?

More importantly, how long could he endure her silence, before he gave up for good?

 **. . .**

The rest of their lab class passed by in the same fashion.

She didn't utter a word to him during Dr. Wells's brief lecture; she didn't even glance at him from her peripheral vision—he knew because he was always glancing at her from his peripheral vision—and she seemed to go through great lengths to avoid touching him, such as removing her arm from the table when he'd placed his on it. It was devastating. He thought that it might get better once they began the experiment, since they had to talk, after all; but if anything, it only got worse. For the division of tasks, for instance, she only muttered a total of two short sentences before shutting him out again with her steely silence; and, instead of working beside him, as pairs usually did, she worked opposite him, across the absurdly wide lab table. At one point, he even asked her questions that he already knew the answers to, in an attempt to make conversation; but all she said was, "It's in the book. Look it up."

By the end of class, he was feeling extremely morose. Gone was the dogged determination to win her back; gone were his fantasies of being a warrior of love on the battlefield. He was just plain old Barry now. Or no, not even—Caitlin's rejection made him feel diminished, somehow, like he was middle school Barry Allen all over again, with pimples and braces and a nerdy love for dinosaurs that made him the butt of jokes in his class. Even if he knew that her rejection wasn't entirely personal—he surmised earlier that she might be avoiding him because she didn't want to get hurt—it still felt personal as hell, as if she were saying that he wasn't good enough for the likes of her.

Still, he couldn't help watching her, from the corner of his eye, even if it hurt to look. She moved swiftly, slipping off her lab coat, sliding her notes and her tablet into her backpack, and lifting her backpack onto her shoulder; and then, still without looking at him, she headed towards the door. Her retreating figure was illuminated, mockingly, but the fierce glare of the sun, which had, only a few hours ago, promised to deliver her to him.

He was about to blame the weather for his woes when something caught his eye. He didn't know if it was a trick of the light, or if he had become desperate enough to hallucinate things… But for a brief moment, he saw Caitlin pause at the doorway. He saw her waver—as if she'd wanted to look back at him before she left.

And then she was gone.

He sat frozen in his seat, unable to reconcile what that split-second of hesitation in her frame meant. Had she merely forgotten something, and so thought twice about going back into the room to get it? But their workspace was clean, and the only thing left on it was his bag… Had she perhaps wanted to clarify something with Dr. Wells? But Dr. Wells, he realized belatedly, had already gone ahead, just shortly before Caitlin herself had left, muttering about some important international call…

Could it really be, then, that she had hesitated because of him…?

The mere thought of it injected a wild, irrational hope in his veins. He startled from his stupor; he shoved everything else into his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Confidence surged in him again, propelling his legs forward, flinging him out the door; he barreled past the flood of students rushing in between classes, mumbling vacant apologies as he went, keeping his eyes firmly trained on her auburn hair in the distance. It was now or never, he realized, heart pounding in his ears; that moment of hesitation he'd seen, _that_ was the crack in her defenses that he'd been waiting for—

"Caitlin!" he called out, just before she turned to take the stairs, "Caitlin, wait up!"

He snaked around the gray lockers; he slid between a crush of people, dressed in identical green shirts for some convention; and, when he stepped onto the landing she was on, bright in a patch of sun, he lunged forward, reached out, and caught her wrist; he held onto it firmly even when she whirled around with enough force to loosen hair from her ponytail, giving him a withering glare that nearly made him recoil.

"Caitlin," he said, striving to sound calm, even as his palms began to sweat. "We have to talk. Please."

"Let me go," she said coolly.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. He knew he had a script for this, but he couldn't remember any of the careful turns of phrase, any of the well-worded apologies, any of the clever, self-deprecating jokes he'd rehearsed; instead what came out was a torrent of words that more closely mirrored the emotions roiling in his gut. "I'm sorry for the things I said last night, I didn't mean it that way, what I really meant was that I—I want to take it slow with you, and the ki—ah, last night was unexpected, but it wasn't unexpected in a bad way, you have to believe me, please—"

"Last night was nothing," she gritted out, cutting him short. "Let. Me. Go."

Her shoulders were rigid and she seemed poised to flee, but she herself made no move to extricate her wrist from his grasp.

He decided this was a good sign. He took a step closer, cautiously gauging her reaction; and, even as she stiffened, she remained rooted to the spot.

"Nothing," he echoed.

" _Nothing_." Her voice was a knife's edge.

"Look at me," he said, taking a gamble and leaning closer. "Look at me and say that one more time. Say that last night was really just nothing."

She pressed her lips together and fixed her eyes on a spot behind him.

"Alright, if you want to ignore last night, fine," he said softly. "But was watching the sunset at the Observatory nothing, too? Was that conversation about your Dad and my Mom nothing?"

"Don't," she said; and he heard, in the word's long vowel, a slight wavering that wasn't there before.

Encouraged, he continued, "How about all those long phone calls, those study sessions, the always-extending talking time limits, the cactus-human pact, the blood-buddy pact, the—"

" _Don't—_ "

"—the way you bite your lip and smile when I tell a joke," he barreled on, "the way you fisted your hands in my shirt when you kissed me back, the way I can't stop thinking about you, how you talk and how you laugh and how beautiful you are—"

"Barry, _stop_ ," she said, her voice cracking. Her knuckles were white around the black strap of her bag. "Please."

The final confession was still swelling on his tongue, but when she said his name, he stilled.

 _Don't give up,_ Eddie had said, _but don't push back_.

So he took a step back. He let go of her hand.

"If that was all nothing," he said, his voice low, "then I'm willing to give that nothing a try."

Silence. He could almost hear her thinking, could feel her withdrawing, putting up her walls again. Had he lost her? he thought dimly, watching her take a deep breath. Would she really keep on pushing him away, again and again and again…?

When she looked up at him, her face was blank, unreadable.

"Nothing is nothing, Barry," she said. Her tone was neutral. "It's not wise to pin your hopes on it."

And then she turned around and walked away.

He stood there on that deserted landing and felt his world splinter at the seams.

.

* * *

.

 **Notes:** So… I know you want them to get back together and make out already and all… but there's this pesky thing called character development to pan out, so there'll be one more chapter of them being apart. I'm switching back to Caitlin again, but let me know what you thought of Barry's.

Now to address the million-dollar question: "Yay a new update but when will you update again?!" A perfectly valid question, and I'm grateful for your enthusiasm, but I do get nervous when readers ask me this, because I don't know what to say. I don't want to get your hopes up with a date and then disappoint you when I can't deliver, so… here's an answer, sort of. Given that real life gets busy, and I write slow and revise obsessively, the next update may be in 2-3 months…? Forgive me, it's all the time I can spare for this story. I really try to write as soon as I have time (and inspiration *cough*). But rest assured that I don't plan on abandoning this, no matter how far apart the updates are. In the meantime, there are a number of great fics in this fandom. You can check out my Favorites for recs, or you can ask other SB fans for fic recs. SB shippers are pretty generous with that, and we don't bite, so don't be scared to ask.

A final note. I don't know if this is still relevant, but I guess better late than never. There was an initiative a few months back by a couple of SB fans on Twitter, who requested fans to tweet the show's writers for more SB, or even for more Caitlin/Barry/Cisco friendship scenes, or realistic character development scenes. I know the trailer's out, but… I guess it won't hurt to let them know what you think. If you plan to do it, please do it respectfully and without bashing anyone else.

Alright, that's it for my rambling. Thanks for reading until the end. As a sort of incentive for those who did, here's a sneak peek of the next chapter ;)

 **. . .**

 **Monday, 7:07 PM**

 _Hi Caitlin, it's me again. I don't want to sound like a stalker or anything by spamming you with voicemail, so… just tell me to stop if you really want me to stop, okay? I swear I will. But if you won't say anything, I'm just going to assume that your silence means, Yes, Barry, you can be as annoying as you possibly can. —Why, Caitlin, it's my pleasure to serve up my specialty. In fact, this is your first daily dose of annoyingness, served fresh from the kissable mouth of CCU Cutie Barry Alle—ah, crap, Wally just heard me saying that. Crap. Now he's laughing his butt off. Can you hear him? Here, I'll move closer. He laughs like a hyena. It's hideous. I don't think you've ever met him, but I hope you will sometime… Anywaaay, uh, I called to let you know that I'm sorry, and I'm not giving up. That's all for now. I'm going to dig myself a hole if I keep going while Wally's listening, so call me if you want to talk, I guess. Bye._

 **. . .**

Reviews are cookies, and I love cookies, so you know what to do ;) Until next time,

 **eccacia**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes:** Thank you for your reviews! And thank you for being incredibly patient and understanding. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think!

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own The Flash. The article that Barry cites here is called "What Is Nothing?" by Fraser Cain from Phys Org.

* * *

One of the most important things that Caitlin's father had taught her was the discipline of getting rid of a bad habit. He'd taught her that it wasn't enough to drop the habit cold turkey: if change was to be sustainable and permanent, the old habit had to be dropped and be immediately replaced by a better habit. For instance, if she wanted to stop watching TV, she couldn't just spend the rest of the hour avoiding the TV—she had to do something else, like read the encyclopedia.

It was with this logic that Caitlin resolved to excise Barry Allen from her mental life. It did not do to merely stop thinking about him, because it was impossible to stop thinking about him by sheer willpower; so instead, she filled her day with work—with outlining and practicing for the orals, with summarizing journal articles for her thesis, with drafting the next post-lab report—which successfully crowded her mind, so that there was no room for Barry Allen at all.

She had come to this course of action the next morning, after a good night's rest and after the alcohol had been flushed out of her system. She hadn't been in a state of mind to think things through the night before—she was too confused and distraught, and her mind was muddled with emotion—but in the light of day, with some distance from Barry, she was finally able to evaluate the recent events with startling clarity.

It seemed that her null hypothesis regarding Barry Allen—that he did not harbor romantic feelings for her—was disproven by that kiss, as a kiss was the pinnacle of romantic feeling. But upon reevaluation of her hypothesis, she realized that a fatal error had occurred in her reasoning. She realized that it didn't matter if her hypothesis was proven or disproven, because the underlying _rationale_ of her investigation was faulty. It was similar to testing a hypothesis like _"There is a significant positive relationship between the width of one's hand span and the age of one's maternal grandmother."_ The numbers could indeed show that those with wider hand spans also had older maternal grandmothers, but the study itself was irrelevant. Similarly, her hypothesis assumed that it was important to be considered Barry Allen's object of affection,which implied that romance was a worthwhile endeavor, when, in fact, it was not.

And the reason why it wasn't worthwhile was simple: Love was temporary insanity. That was by far the most logical explanation for why she—she who was logical, clear-headed, intolerant of frivolity, unseduced by narratives of romantic love—had suddenly fallen for Barry in a span of two weeks, and why she'd found herself doing things that she would never have done, such as spending three hours on the phone, or singing onstage, or dancing with abandon in the midst of a sweaty throng, or leaning in to kiss someone that she barely knew.

In line with that, she realized that Saturday night contained all the necessary conditions to short-circuit reasoning. The context of a party simultaneously created an atmosphere of wild abandon and disabled the tools for rational thought: one is unable to see clearly when one's vision is assaulted by the bright, blinking lights; one can hardly hear oneself think above the aggressive beat of the music; and, once inebriated, one is unable to wield logic at all.

And, during the party, when Barry had called her onstage to sing with him, she was placed in a context in which it was impossible for her to say no without dire social consequences—rather than to step off the stage, be booed by the crowd, and be labelled a killjoy, she was inclined to take the path of least resistance, which was to simply join him. Their dancing together had also been a function of context: after the sing-off, people were pulling friends and significant others onto the dance floor, and they, conforming to the crowd, had also moved to the dance floor. It was part of the script of a party to dance; it was not part of the script of a party to have a clear-headed discussion on the implications of him naming her as his partner for the sing-off.

That kiss was similarly manufactured by the demands of context. The open balcony under the starry night sky was a favorite setting of the romantic imagination, and with good reason: she suspected that standing under the vast night sky made people feel small and insignificant, and, faced with the overwhelming threat of their insignificance, they naturally gravitated to others, fiercely wanting the other to affirm their significance, wanting to be loved and known in order to save themselves from the reality that they were adrift and alone, a speck of dust on a piece of rock suspended in empty space. In fact, two of her most ill-informed decisions—deciding that she liked Barry, and leaning in to kiss him—were made under the night sky. Had they been around people in the light of day, in a sober setting like the library, such things would never have happened.

In any case, she would allow no more of this nonsense in her life. It was absurd to believe that this new self, this Caitlin-with-Barry self that had been forged in a mere two weeks, could overshadow the self she'd been for over twenty years; it then followed that the new self was a falsehood that had to be discarded, and the self she'd always been—the logical, clear-headed, impervious-to-romance self—was her true self, the self she had to maintain and protect. And, in order to do that, she had to cut Barry Allen off. It was regrettable, but it was necessary. Sometimes, to halt the progress of a disease, it wasn't enough to scrape away the infected flesh; sometimes, it was necessary to amputate the entire limb.

She resolved to stand by her decision until his persistence waned and until he realized, as she had, that his energies were better directed elsewhere. She, for one, could focus on her career, as she had always intended, and he could focus on his transition into Forensic Science.

It was the most logical decision, and one that would benefit them both. It was, she truly believed, for the best.

* * *

 _ **Monday, 7:07 PM**_

 _Hi Caitlin, it's me again. I don't want to sound like a stalker or anything by spamming you with voicemail, so… just tell me to stop if you really want me to stop, okay? I swear I will. But if you won't say anything, I'm just going to assume that your silence means, Yes, Barry, you can be as annoying as you possibly can. —Why, Caitlin, it's my pleasure to serve up my specialty. In fact, this is your first daily dose of annoyingness, served fresh from the kissable mouth of CCU Cutie Barry Allen—ah, crap, Wally just heard me saying that. Crap. Now he's laughing his butt off. Can you hear him? Here, I'll move closer. He laughs like a hyena. It's hideous. I don't think you've ever met him, but I hope you will sometime… Anywaaay, uh, I called to let you know that I'm sorry, and I'm not giving up. That's all for now. I'm going to dig myself a hole if I keep going while Wally's listening, so call me if you want to talk, I guess. Bye._

Swipe. Delete.

 **. . .**

 _ **Tuesday, 10:51 AM**_

 _Hi Caitlin. So, uh, welcome to day two of being annoyed by your local cutie. Heh, I can already imagine you wrinkling your brow and trying not to smile but failing not to smile, so you end up biting your lip instead, and you'd say, "Who're the idiots that put you on the CCU Cutie list"—I'm number eight out of fifty, in case you're wondering, not to toot my own horn—okay, fine, totally tooting it—"and don't those idiots know that they're just ratcheting up your insufferability index?!" Do you remember saying that, insufferability index? I know I should be insulted, but I usually end up flattered instead, knowing that you tailor your insults to me. I like to think of it as you showing your love. Although I'd still prefer compliments... ahem, ahem. Anyway, um… wow, I've spent half of this voicemail talking about what you might say. It's… not as fun talking to imaginary Caitlin than it is talking to real Caitlin. So… give me a call? Or leave a message. Whenever you're ready. Bye._

Swipe. Delete.

 _ **Tuesday, 8:23 PM**_

 _Hey, so I just got your e-mail. I'm… kind of bummed that you wanna study separately for the orals, but… if that's what you want, I guess. Don't worry, I'll do my part. It'll be harder to study without you slave-driving me, but I won't let you down. I can't believe I miss you slave-driving me, heh. Anyway, um… what else… Oh yeah, I'm free next Saturday for the make-up class and the STAR Labs tour. It's so cool that we're having our make-up class at STAR Labs. I'm almost glad he cancelled class on Monday. Dr. Wells is the best, isn't he? …Anyway, uh, look, I know I could've just e-mailed you back, but… I don't know, e-mail's just not our thing, you know? If that makes any sense. Yeah… that's all for now. You know the drill. See you Thursday for the orals._

Swipe. Delete.

 **. . .**

 _ **Wednesday, 1:34 PM**_

 _Happy third-day-sary of being annoyed by me! Er, I wasn't sure if it's a cause for celebration, but I guess I'm feeling pretty optimistic. I mean, at least you haven't told me to stop talking yet, right? …Anyway, awhile ago, just for kicks, I typed "Is nothing really nothing?" in Google. Not sure if you remember, but you told me the last time we talked that whatever happened between us was nothing, and nothing is nothing so it's smart of me to pin my hopes on it. So I thought, Is nothing really nothing? and I figured it'd be fun to ask Google. Anyway, Google has this to say about nothing: "There are physicists like Lawrence Krauss that argue the 'universe from nothing', really means 'the universe from a potentiality'. Which comes down to if you add all the mass and energy in the universe, all the gravitational curvature, everything… it looks like it all sums up to zero. So it is possible that the universe really did come from nothing. And if that's the case, then 'nothing' is everything we see around us, and 'everything' is nothing." Neat, huh? Nothing is everything. I know you super disapprove of me typing the whole question into the search bar instead of just typing the keywords, but I swear I didn't get it from Yahoo Answers. It's from a site called Phys-dot-Org, which sounds pretty legit to me._ _Anyway, see you tomorrow for orals. I studied like hell for it, and you study enough for the both of us, so we should do great. I… I'm actually looking forward to it. Not the orals, but seeing you. So… see you tomorrow. Bye._

Swipe. Delete.

* * *

"Cait? Cait."

Caitlin startled when she felt a hand on her wrist, gently lifting it from the keyboard of her laptop. She turned to see Felicity giving her a worried look.

"You've been pressing the spacebar," she said.

"Oh." Caitlin glanced at her screen. She had begun the post-lab document at page 1. She was now on page 15, and all the pages in between were blank.

"Are you okay?" Felicity ventured. "Did something happen between you and Barry?"

"No." She highlighted the blank pages and pressed delete.

Felicity sighed. "Cait, you haven't been talking to us since Sunday, so something obviously happened on Saturday night. Did he hurt you? Because if he did, I swear I'll—"

"No." She reread the paragraph she'd written so far. "We're fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Felicity pursed her lips. "Cait, please. Talk to me. You're overworking, you haven't been sleeping, and you have lapses like this, when you don't even realize that you're spacing out."

"I'm fine."

"Cait—"

"Felicity! God, stop!" she snapped. "I'm fine, okay? I just, I have a lot of deadlines coming up, alright?"

Felicity recoiled.

"Okay," she said, with barely concealed hurt. "Okay. Fine. Whatever."

She turned away and slinked back to her desk.

Caitlin concentrated on her screen, trying to ignore the pain in her chest.

* * *

The next day Caitlin woke with a start. She blinked a few times at the light streaming in through her windows, peeled away a piece of paper that had stuck to her cheek, and shot out of her chair to get ready for the orals.

Or, rather, she stumbled out of her chair, felt around for the reviewers on her desk, and shuffled around the room to gather her other things—towel, clothes, shoes, backpack—as if blind, hitting the corners of tables and countertops as she went. Despite her astounding stamina for studying, Caitlin was not immune to the effects of sleep deprivation, and after totaling only six hours of sleep for the past three days, her mind was foggy, her eyes were dry, and her stomach (also owing to an overdose of caffeine and a diet of crackers and instant noodles) roiled with acid. She felt like either wanting to vomit or wanting to die.

But she was fine. This was fine. This was _familiar_. At the very least, her physical unease consumed such a significant portion of her attention that she was unable to obsessively rehearse all the worst-case scenarios in her mind, as she usually did.

She took the long route to the science and engineering complex, which ensured that she would meet less people along the way, and silently recited reagent names and reaction mechanisms as she went. _Benedict's Test. Positive results: orange to brick red. Indicates the presence of sugar. Negative results: no change in color. Indicates the absence of sugar._ She paused at a vendo machine for some coffee and downed it in one gulp, grimacing when it scalded her tongue. _Molisch's Test. Positive results: purple appearing at the junction of the two layers of liquids. Indicates the presence of carbohydrates. Negative results: no purple at the junction of the liquids. Indicates the absence of carbohydrates._ She took the stairs to the fourth floor, and then turned to the row of rooms that professors used for consultations and oral exams. They were usually occupied towards the end of the semester, but right now there was only one occupied room with the light on and the door ajar.

Caitlin crushed her coffee cup, tossed it into a nearby trash bin, and took a deep breath. Fifteen minutes, she told herself. She only had to endure fifteen minutes of this—and of Barry Allen—and she was free. She could do this.

When she entered the room, she immediately recognized the outline of Barry's back, seated in front of Dr. Wells's wide wooden desk, and Dr. Wells himself sat across him with his arms folded. They seemed to be in the middle of a conversation, but when she slipped inside, Barry turned around quickly and shot her a grin.

She ignored him. She put on her deadpan mask and hoped that it wouldn't crack.

Dr. Wells smiled at her. "Ms. Snow, nice of you to join us," he said, as she took a seat across him and beside Barry. "Well, since you're both here now, why don't we start?"

"Ready when you are, Dr. Wells," Barry said.

Caitlin merely nodded. Her anxiety was building now; her palms were beginning to sweat and her throat felt dry. She absolutely hated oral exams and anything that resembled it—presentations, panel interviews, defenses, anything at all that required her to speak, to be judged for each word she spoke, and to witness the judgment passed on her through the facial expressions (or lack thereof) of the professor or the panel even as she was still speaking. It was an absolute nightmare. The only time when she didn't feel that way was when she was drunk—her drunk alter ego enjoyed being the center of attention, for reasons she didn't want to contemplate—but she couldn't very well show up drunk during an oral exam or a panel interview. Of course, she'd gotten better at hiding her fear as she went through college, but the beginning was still the worst part.

"Alright, let's start with something easy," Dr. Wells said. "Ms. Snow, enumerate the tests for carbohydrates and their indicators for positive results."

This _was_ easy. She knew this. She'd rehearsed for it just a few moments ago, and she also distinctly remembered summarizing the tests in table format for their post-laboratory report. She remembered inputting each entry and polishing the format of the table—bolding the headings, alternating the row colors, affixing the caption—and the memory remained so vivid in her mind that she could recite the answer as if she were reading directly from that table. She had this. _She had this._

But when she opened her mouth to speak, no sound came. She was paralyzed. The table was still etched in her mind's eye, but fear constricted her throat and scrambled the words she'd intended to say. _Oh God,_ she thought, her hands fisting in the fabric of her jeans, _not now not now not now_ —

A second passed. Then two. When three seconds crawled by, the silence became tense, and Caitlin felt all the more the crushing pressure of having to say something, if only to fill the silence; but anxiety and humiliation collapsed her airways, bound her mouth in a steel trap. She felt like she literally could not speak.

Beside her, Barry cleared his throat.

"Mind if I go first, Dr. Wells?" he said, careful not to look at her. He continued lightly, "I'd like to volunteer to answer all the easy questions before they run out."

Dr. Wells shifted his piercing blue gaze from her to Barry, and he leaned back against his chair with a slight smile. "I can't guarantee you any more 'easy questions,' Mr. Allen, but go ahead."

Barry grinned and launched into his answer, completely at ease as he talked—so much so, in fact, that he even made a joke while he was at it. When he finished, he pretended to bow to an imaginary audience, and Dr. Wells was shaking his head in barely disguised amusement.

He paused to write something on a sheaf of stapled papers, and then looked up at Caitlin again.

"Ms. Snow?" he said expectantly. "Ready for the next question?"

Her breath caught in her throat. No, she wasn't. She felt like fading away from the scene. It was one of her defense mechanisms—during stress, she shut down. She disengaged. She was there-not-there. Each passing second with her fear felt like a knife-tip grating down the notched bones of her spine—

She was so caught up in her internal struggle that she startled when she felt something warm cover her hand.

 _What the—_

Her eyes flickered down, and she saw that Barry was holding her hand.

During an oral exam.

 _In front of Dr. Wells_.

She was so livid that she couldn't move. What was he _thinking?_ Scratch that— _was he even thinking?_ She was going to _kill_ him—

But, no, wait—he wasn't really holding her hand, per se—he was only running his fingers over her clenched fists, cautiously coaxing them to open. She hadn't realized she'd been clenching them so tightly that the muscles were strained from the tension. When she finally unclenched them, he quickly withdrew his hand, and continued rambling to Dr. Wells—he'd been managing a conversation this whole time—as if nothing had happened.

She blinked and took a slow, deep breath. She felt like she was coming out of her stupor, as if unclenching her fists had also uncoiled the anxiety that had gripped her body.

"Mr. Allen," she dimly registered Dr. Wells saying, "most people answer _after_ they've been asked a question, not before."

"Just wanna show off how much I studied," Barry said, grinning.

Dr. Wells shook his head and turned to her. "I have to apologize for pairing you off with him, Ms. Snow."

"Hey! I resent that," Barry protested. "I'm a pretty decent lab partner."

"Perhaps 'highly distractible' is more appropriate."

"But I can't help it, Dr. Wells," he said. "It's just how I am. I get really excited about anything science."

"Ah, Mr. Allen," Dr. Wells said, his eyes shifting briefly to her, "I don't think science is the only thing you get excited about."

 _Oh my God, does he mean_ —she didn't even want to continue that train of thought, but when she saw that Barry, for once, had been struck speechless, she supposed the implication was clear. Oh, God. This was embarrassing. Had he seen Barry reach for her hand? But it was a wide, high desk—he couldn't have _seen_ it—and Barry had been so discreet that _she_ hadn't even seen him move—

"Dr. Wells," she blurted out, just to end the humiliation, "I believe it's my turn…"

"So it is." His usually stern features softened into a reassuring look. "Don't be nervous, Ms. Snow. This isn't so different from reciting in class or conversing with the panel in open forums."

Caitlin swallowed and nodded.

"Ms. Snow, can you tell me why Molisch's test for carbohydrates yields a purple color? An explanation of the reaction mechanism will do."

She took a discreet breath. She could do this. From the corner of her eye she could see Barry glancing at her out of concern, no doubt readying another excuse to answer for her if she blanked out, and somehow the thought that he had her back quelled the anxiety rising in her throat.

"Molisch's test determines the presence of carbohydrates by dehydrating them in the presence of sulfuric acid," she began. She spoke with some hesitance at first, but as she continued speaking, her confidence rose, and she forgot her fear.

When she finished, there was a faint smile on Dr. Wells's face.

"Good," he said. "Very thoroughly explained. Now, Mr. Allen, the third question…"

While he briefly consulted his notes, Barry turned to her and smiled with a mixture of pride and relief, but she quickly turned away. She turned away because guilt had crept into the void that anxiety had carved, and this guilt—the origin of which she could not yet name—made her unable to look at him for the rest of the exam.

 **. . .**

The rest of the orals was a breeze. Caitlin told herself that she could have gotten over her fear without Barry's help—she'd always managed (to her own surprise) to pull through those first few minutes—but there was another part of her that said that wasn't exactly true. When before, anxiety seized her afresh each time a new question was asked, this time, right after that first question, she felt like she'd entered a state of flow, like the question-answer sequences had already been programmed in her mind and all she had to do was to produce the answer when prompted by the question. That thoughtful gesture of his had played no small part in helping her get over her fear.

She felt, then, that the situation obliged her to thank him—if not the situation, then common courtesy, at the very least, required her to reciprocate his act of kindness with gratitude. Yet, when he'd beamed at her after they'd stepped out of the room, she'd brushed past him as if he didn't exist; and to add insult to injury, she'd even kept her eyes trained on a spot in the distance to avoid seeing the naked hurt on his face.

Caitlin knew, objectively, that a curt "thank you" would have been no big deal in any other scenario. But this scenario was not any other scenario, and in this case a "thank you" wouldn't be a mere expression of gratitude: a "thank you" would also be the first crack in her silence, and if she allowed that crack, she would render herself helpless against his efforts to worm his way back into her affections. A "thank you" in this case was also thus an implicit "I'm sorry for ignoring you" and "I want to talk to you again"—both of which she could not allow herself to say, because if her campaign to dissuade Barry from ever speaking to her again her was to be successful, she could allow no exceptions.

But driving him away with silence wasn't without its consequences—she felt guilty for repaying his kindness so coldly. Normally, one could assuage one's guilt by approaching the wronged party to make amends, but she already established that she could not approach him, so she felt doubly worse—from being unable to thank him, and from being unable to apologize to him for not thanking him.

With this guilt, too, came shame at the person she had to be in order to reject him so completely. She'd been afraid of the person she was becoming when she was with him, but now she was appalled at who she was becoming in order to drive him away. It seemed that Barry's kindness only magnified her heartlessness; his gentle persistence, her haste in cutting him off; his unwavering thoughtfulness, her ruthless excision of him from her mental life.

She sighed. Why did he have to be so _nice_ , anyway? She would have welcomed his anger and his resentment, because those would have made sense; but instead he was kind, and she was completely disarmed by his kindness. It was a sincere, pure-hearted kindness at that, without any undercurrent of manipulating her into guilt. But then again, that wasn't Barry's style, and come to think of it, she couldn't imagine him angry and resentful… If she were to become the cause such ugly, blistering emotions in someone as good-natured as he, she was going to feel like a monster.

The least she could hope for, she thought as she settled down in her next class, was for him to give up soon. That way she didn't have to keep hurting him—or rather, she didn't have to keep hurting them _both_.

 **. . .**

Still, that night, as she lay alone in her dark room—Felicity had been avoiding her for the past few days, and she knew she deserved it but she was yet too ashamed to apologize—she placed her phone on her pillow, beside her head. As usual, he'd left a voicemail, half an hour after the orals.

She allowed it to play.

 _Hey. Are you okay? I knew you told me you didn't like orals, but I didn't know you were that terrified of them. I hope you're okay now. Sorry for holding your hand, I know you're still iffy with the whole touch thing, but I didn't know how else to comfort you. I'm really glad you got over it, though. Actually, everything turned out great in the end, don't you think? We made quite the pair, with me slaying all the easy questions and you slaying all the hard ones, heh. Well, anyway, that's all for now, I have to meet up with Coach. He's been really hard on all of us lately since tomorrow's the finals. It'll be great if you could come watch, or even if you could drop by to say hi. I really miss you. Call me or message me or something, you know the drill. Bye._

His voice dissolved into the silence.

Caitlin swiped left, and her finger hovered above the bright red _Delete_ button. But, right before she pressed it, the memory of his hand over hers during the orals flitted through her mind, and she shut her eyes and took a shaky breath.

She was just… so _tired_ of this. She was so tired of resisting him, of constructing all these elaborate denials and rationalizations and justifications. She knew that there were to be absolutely no exceptions, but…

She drew her phone close.

She played the voicemail again.

 _Hey. Are you okay? I knew you told me you didn't like orals, but I didn't know you were that terrified of them. I hope you're okay now…_

* * *

He lost by 0.91 seconds.

To make up for her momentary lapse in resolve the night before, she'd adamantly avoided his meet, but she might as well have been there with the way she obsessively refreshed her Twitter feed; and, when she saw the headline "KCU's Hunter Zolomon Bags First Place, Dethrones CCU's Reigning Champ Barry Allen" an hour or so after the meet, she could hardly believe it.

He lost, she repeated, the thought sinking in. She could only imagine what he was feeling right now. He'd told her, during one of their phone calls, that he wanted to finish this season strong before quitting. "My heart's not in it anymore," he'd said, "but my ego is. Does that make sense? I mean, everyone was so proud of me when I won my first national meet. It was unbelievable. My mom and dad couldn't stop telling their friends about it. For the first time in decades the track team finally got support from the school. Stores wanted to sponsor us. People were flocking to our meets. My teammates were so psyched, and Coach hadn't smiled so much since his wife gave birth. It was… a pretty great feeling, I guess." "You just like the attention," she'd said, and he'd laughed. "Not denying that. But it's really nice, you know, having started all that, making people proud. It makes me feel like I matter."

But, she wondered now, if winning made him feel like he mattered, what did losing make him feel?

Disturbed by her own question, she put her phone aside and stared at the articles open on her laptop, willing her focus to return, but she couldn't bring herself to get back to work. Guilt nagged at her conscience even more insistently now. He'd held her hand when she'd frozen up in fear during the orals, and now that _he_ was the one who needed comfort, she was refusing to be there for him.

She knew that she couldn't afford to make any more exceptions, but…

She dug the heels of her hand into her eyes and sighed in frustration. Sure, she could ignore a happy, cheery Barry, the Barry who sent her all those chipper voicemails, but can she really just ignore a sad, hurting Barry…?

The thought of him like that had her rising from her desk. Vaguely, she cursed herself for making that first exception last night, because now she'd set herself on the slippery slope of exception-making; but that sentiment wasn't strong enough to stop her from heading out her door. She didn't even think to message him to ask him where he was—it seemed her feet moved on their own accord, following the invisible trail that led to him. She knew, without knowing how she knew, where he was going to be.

 **. . .**

She did find him there, at the Observatory.

It was sunset, like the last time they were here, and the soft light cast a warm glow on his skin. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back on his hands, silent and unmoving as a statue.

She watched him from a distance. She watched the wind tug at his hair, watched him turn his face to the dying sun and stare blankly at the smattering of stores, at the specks of people moving mutely below.

Minutes passed. Still, she remained behind a copse of trees, standing on a patch of flat ground in the midst of gnarled roots, too afraid to approach. She didn't know what to say. She'd never been good with words, and she'd never been good at filling silences, and she didn't know what to offer as solace. Should she begin with the bland reassurance, as most people did, that everything was going to be okay? Should she ask him how he was feeling? Should she make him laugh, offer him a hug…?

Lost as she was in her thoughts, she only dimly registered the crunch of leaves underfoot. Barry looked to his right, and, more out of instinct than curiosity, she mimicked his movement and turned to look.

At first, Caitlin couldn't make out the person's features, as her profile was cast against the light; but as she neared, she caught sight of a head of blond hair and a flash of straight, white teeth.

"Hey," she said. "Thought you'd be here."

"Patty, hey," Barry said, and Caitlin's world stilled.

Patty. Patty, the girl with the dimpled smile who went to all his meets, the one everyone believed he was with. How did Patty know that he'd be here? Had he brought her here, too? But how could he bring her here? Wasn't the Observatory _their_ place—?

Wait—why did she even think of the Observatory as _theirs?_ In the first place, there was no 'they' to speak of; they weren't even together! And wasn't this place _Barry's_ safe haven? Since he was the one who'd discovered it, didn't he have the right to share it with whomever he chose?

Caitlin took a deep breath, trying to stamp down the unfamiliar burn of jealousy in her chest.

"Can I sit here?" Patty said.

He shrugged. "Sure."

Patty folded into a sitting position, the movement supple and fluid. "So, how're you feeling?"

The question echoed numbly in Caitlin's mind. It was the same question she'd thought of asking him when she'd first seen the headline, the question she would have asked him had she approached him first.

"Pretty bummed, I guess," Barry said after a lengthy pause. He exhaled. "I knew I was going to quit anyway, but I didn't know how badly I wanted to quit a winner… Does that make sense?"

Caitlin swallowed the rising bitterness in her throat. _Does that make sense—_ he'd always asked her that whenever he shared something serious and personal about himself, and it had always seemed an intimate phrase to Caitlin: in that question he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, to lay bare his need to be wholly understood. It had never occurred to her that he also used it while speaking to other people.

While speaking to _Patty._

She felt doubly betrayed—Patty also knew about this place, and she was also privy to this more vulnerable side of him, as she was—but what, exactly, had been betrayed? Why was _she_ the one who felt betrayed, when she'd cut him off first?

Patty nodded and touched his shoulder. "Yeah, that makes sense."

Her eyes lingered on that touch. Another small intimacy.

Her fingers curled and scraped the bark of the tree, and she had the sudden, violent urge to tear it apart—and then she caught herself in horror. What was jealousy turning her into? She did not recognize herself in these feelings, these thoughts; jealousy was making her illogical, melodramatic, and it was extremely unlike her.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down, and when she did she continued to watch them. She knew she shouldn't be eavesdropping on this conversation—the second time it was happening, it seemed—but she found herself unable to leave. She just… had to know. She had to know what everyone else saw in them. She would leave, of course, when things became too private, and while she didn't want to imagine _how_ private things could get, a part of her also wanted to see whatever intimacy might unfold between them. It would hurt, of course, but at least the hurt would be allayed by the grim triumph of knowing that if he had such intimate moments with Patty, then he didn't really like her, which rendered her decision to cut him off all the more justified.

"But you know," Patty was saying, "I don't think people will remember you as the guy who broke CCU's winning streak. They'll remember you for putting CCU on the map."

He scoffed, but Patty insisted, "No, really. We've never been known for sports, but since you joined the track team, everyone's suddenly crazy about track. School spirit's the strongest during your meets. That's really something to be proud of, you know?"

"…I guess."

"Hey, cheer up," she said, bumping shoulders with him. "Look, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but the whole block's waiting for you at Jitters. We're throwing you a party, and it'd be nice if you could show up, being the guest of honor and all."

"I don't know," he said, reluctant. "I'm not really hungry."

"No way. Is that really you, Mr. 'I Never Say No to Food' Allen?"

He cracked a smile, and she continued, "Come on. You can have a whole tray of lasagna to yourself."

He was grinning now. "Are you bribing me to attend my own party, Spivot?"

"Bribing? Who said we were paying for your lasagna?"

He laughed, and Patty smiled and stood, mockingly offering him a hand after she did.

Caitlin felt faint. She couldn't bear to watch this. It had been a mistake to assume that she would only be hurt by a dramatic show of intimacy, because watching them during those few ordinary moments hurt like hell, too. They just made so much sense together—they had the same sunny good-naturedness, and they carried themselves with the same ease around people. She could never be like that. She couldn't have comforted him the way Patty had, and it would never have occurred to her that, for someone who loved people as much as he did, he would have been cheered by a party, by being with good friends…

She whirled around, hurt and confused and keen to leave; but she'd forgotten she was standing on the only patch of flat ground in the middle of thick, gnarled roots, so when her toe snagged under one, she tripped and fell with a barely contained yelp.

Barry and Patty fell silent.

"What was that?" Patty said.

"Don't know," Barry said. "Must've been the wind…"

Caitlin winced, hoping they wouldn't see her. Great. Just great. Why did she have to be cursed with such terrible bodily coordination? And what was it with this bleeding tree root? Couldn't it have at least allowed her to walk away with dignity? She knew it was wrong to take her frustration out on it, but she viciously tore it away from her foot anyway.

"No, really, I think there's someone—"

Caitlin froze at how close their voices suddenly were. Shit, now she couldn't move until they passed by. It was getting dark—she had that on her side, at least—and she just hoped to God that they wouldn't look too closely between the trees.

"Nah," Barry said, turning to face Patty, "no one else really knows about this pla—"

And then he froze, his gaze landing right on her.

Oh _shit_.

He quickly placed his hands on Patty's shoulders, steering her so that her back was turned to Caitlin, and said, "Look, why don't you go ahead to Jitters?"

"What? Why?" Patty said.

Caitlin quickly got to her feet—wincing slightly when she put weight on the foot that had caught in the root—and turned to the opposite direction. He'd already seen her, anyway, so it was best to get the hell out while he was still talking to Patty.

"…need a little more time alone before I face everyone…" he was saying, his voice growing faint. She moved as quietly as she could, like she did when she first made her way up, and she was thankful for the night breeze that rustled the leaves and disguised the sound of her footsteps.

She glanced back to assess her progress. She saw Patty heading down the more well-worn path, and Barry… heading right towards her.

She cursed inwardly, unable to believe her terrible luck. She had the urge to break into a run, but it was already dark and she didn't want to trip again… And besides, if she broke into a run, he would, too, and he could catch up to her in no time.

Damn it. She was trapped.

"Cait," he said, his voice a lot nearer now, "wait, don't go—"

She exhaled and turned to face him. A maelstrom of emotions roiled inside her, more violently now that she'd come face to face with its cause; but she held them under tight rein, and she willed her face into a blank mask.

He slowed when she turned, looking windswept and bewildered. "It really is you," he murmured. "What're you doing here?"

For a brief moment, she considered telling a lie, but she knew how easily he would see through it; there was simply no other believable excuse for her being here. She had no choice, then, but to tell the truth, and an irrational resentment welled inside her at this choicelessness, one that flattened her tone and blunted her words.

"I saw the tweets," she said. "I'm sorry you lost."

"Oh," he said. "Uh… thanks."

"Look, I have to go—"

"What time did you get here?" he said. They had spoken at the same time, but he chose to ignore what she just said, looking determined to steer the conversation. "How long have you been standing there?"

Caitlin's face burned with humiliation. So he'd realized that she was eavesdropping. Another lie waited on the tip of her tongue— _Just now, actually_ —but she couldn't bring herself to say it, not when he was looking at her like that. "Long enough," she said. And then, before she could stop it: "I overheard some parts of your conversation. I'm sorry."

She thought he would have been mad, or at the very least annoyed, but instead he softened and took a cautious step towards her.

"I never brought her here," he said.

Her breath caught in her throat; the maelstrom inside her surged, strained from the leash of her composure. He wasn't supposed to say that. He was supposed to be annoyed or angry; he was supposed to throw his hands up in frustration; he was supposed to give up and walk away. Those reactions she could deal with, could categorize. But this? This was leading her into unknown territory, and she was afraid that if she stepped into it, she would find no solid ground beneath.

He continued, "I did mention it to her, because she once asked what my favorite place in campus was, but I never—"

"It doesn't matter," she said, willing her voice to remain even. "You're free to bring whomever you want."

"I know," he said softly. "That's why I brought you."

The leash snapped. A flood of emotions assaulted her—first relief and hope, so strong that she wanted to move towards him, touch him, hold him and be held by him; but, only moments later, panic overpowered that—panic that she was no longer in control of the situation, that she was no longer in control of even _herself_ ; panic that she was standing on the precipice, on the verge of hurtling into something she would later regret. She could not allow herself this, she could not allow any emotional excess; she should not feel, else she could not think.

"Look," she told him, gathering the remaining threads of her frayed resolve, "it was a mistake for me to come—"

"No, Cait, don't do that—don't shut me out again." He sidestepped just as she turned away, so that she came face-to-face with him again, but she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. "Please, can we talk?"

"We just did."

"You know what I mean."

"And you already know what I have to say," she gritted out. "I've already said everything that needs to be said."

"Then," he said, "why are you here?"

Her airways constricted. Even if he'd said it so gently, she felt like she'd been disarmed and trapped. Because that was the real question, wasn't it? Why, after all her efforts to push him away, did she still seek him out? Why did the idea of him hurting sadden her? Why was she so compelled to cheer him up, to be there for him? She knew she'd had an answer to that, one that contained unthreatening truths, but she couldn't summon it to mind now. Instead the answer that flashed into her mind—that flashed and then branded itself there, so searing that she couldn't unthink it—was the truth she was too afraid to face, let alone say aloud.

So instead she lashed out.

"I don't know, okay?" she snapped. "I. Don't. Know. I feel like I'm always fumbling around in the dark when it comes to you—I don't have answers ninety percent of the time, and the ten percent of answers I do have, I'm not completely convinced of. So, _please_. Don't. Ask."

His gaze softened, and he drew closer to her, but she remained rigid, her spine cast in steel. "Is that so bad?" he said. "Not having all the answers?"

"Of course it is," she said vehemently. "Nothing is ever complicated for you, so of course you wouldn't understand—"

" _I_ wouldn't understand?" he said, incredulous. "Cait, I don't have all the answers either, but you don't see me running away—"

"I'm not running away, I'm solving the problem once and for all!"

"How? By completely ignoring me?"

"Yes! But _you_ don't seem to be taking the hint—"

"No, you're right, _that_ part I don't understand," he said, his voice rising, his features contorting in confusion and anguish. "Tell me, Cait, what _exactly_ does that solve?"

She opened her mouth, but suddenly all words fled her, withered under the fire in his eyes.

"Well? Enlighten me," he said, the word twisting his mouth in bitter irony, and it was such an unfamiliar expression on him that her gut wrenched in horror. Had she really been the one to put that expression on his face? She thought she'd be able to handle his anger, but it seemed that it only weighed her down with the guilt of being its cause. But couldn't dwell on that now—not when she had to take control of the situation, not when she had a fight to win. "Maybe then we can be on the same page."

"I'd be wasting my breath," she said tightly. "You wouldn't understand."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Then _make_ _me_ ," he said, his voice strained. "Make me understand your problem, Cait! I'm not a mind-reader!"

" _My_ problem?" she bristled at the accusation in his tone; the blood rushed to her face, and the confusion, jealousy, and barely-leashed longing that she'd bottled and sealed finally burst and boiled over. "My problem is _you!_ My problem is that _you_ came along and threw my entire life off-course!" All rationality had fled her now, and she was running on the adrenaline of her anger. "Like I said, _you wouldn't understand_. You've had crushes and girlfriends since middle school. _I_ haven't. It's just not who I am. And I was perfectly fine with that." Barry looked as if he were about to interject, but she couldn't stop talking; the words rushed out of her in a raging torrent. "Actually, I was _grateful_ for it, because it meant my work would never suffer from the unnecessary angst of romantic entanglements. My life was uncomplicated. All my efforts revolved around school and internships and scholarship programs, anything that could bring me closer to becoming a bioengineer. And for the most part, I was in control of everything in that world."

She took a shaky breath. "But then _you_ come along," she accused with renewed vehemence, "and suddenly I'm not in control of _anything_. Everything's incomprehensible. Every time you talk to me, it's like you're speaking in code. Every time a conundrum is solved, ten new ones appear." The words burned like acid on her tongue. "My own feelings are incomprehensible to _me._ I've always been able to analyze them to death, but this time, the more I analyze, the more confused I get, and the stronger they become."

His lips parted in surprise. "What do you—"

"So, Barry, tell me," she said bitterly, her throat closing. "Tell me, how is it possible that in a span of two weeks, I've gone from being single-mindedly focused on building a career in bioengineering, to thinking of you every single moment of the day? How is it possible that I've gone from not being attracted to anyone, to liking you so much that I feel I'm going out of my mind?"

He stared at her, stunned.

The instant that last sentence fell from her lips, the invigorating haze of her anger cleared and left in its wake a cold dread that coiled in her stomach. _Fuck,_ what did she just say? And why the hell did she have to go out and say it? She felt like she had just torn down her own defenses, and now she was standing in front of him, stripped of all her armor. Fuck, she hated this. She hated feeling so vulnerable.

"You like me," he said in disbelief. And then, his lips stretched into a slow smile. "You like me."

"Oh my God," she breathed, wanting nothing more than to find a hole in the ground to bury her head in. If she could, she would have already raced back in time to take back everything she said, but instead she had to suffer the humiliating crush of the present. "That's not the point—"

"No, Cait, I think that's exactly the point," he said. "Everything else is beside it."

"You can't call everything I've just said _beside the point_ —"

"Okay, okay, you're right, they're not," he quickly amended, holding both hands out in surrender to appease her. "What I meant was, can we start from _this_ point?" He took a step closer, his eyes luminescent with hope. "Can we start from the fact that we both like each other and then figure out what happens from here?"

"I'll tell you what happens from here," she said through gritted teeth, trying to hold on to the last shreds of control that had so rapidly slipped from her hands. "We'll go out on a few dates. You'll find out that we're not suited for each other. I'm too serious and uptight, and you're too sunny and carefree. Everything that occurred over the past two weeks was exciting because of the novelty, but once the novelty wears off you'll lose interest—"

" _I'll_ lose interest?" he said, drawing back in hurt. "Do you really think so little of me?"

"—and you'll move on to someone else more suited to your personality."

There was a beat of silence, and then comprehension dawned on his features.

"Like Patty, you mean?" he said.

"I'm not implying—"

His tone turned teasing. "Is that jealousy I'm hearing, Caitlin?"

She glared at him. "I'm just making a realistic assessment of the situation," she said.

"Well, let me give you _my_ realistic assessment of the situation," he said. He was looking at her now with such tenderness that the steel in her spine had begun to melt; and before she could move away, he took her hands in his, just like he had during the orals; and he ran his fingers over hers, his touch warm and light and reassuring.

That was it, she was a goner. The last drop of resistance drained from her body. Deep down she knew that she had already lost—and she knew, even deeper down, that just maybe, she was glad to lose.

He slowly threaded his fingers through hers, his eyes trained on her, bright in the moonlight. "You have nothing to be jealous about," he said, bringing up her hand and pressing a quick kiss onto her knuckles. The gesture struck her as so sweet and innocent that, even if she still had half her mind about her, she didn't protest or pull away. He tugged on their joined hands to pull her even closer, and again she let him. She would never admit it to him—she would hardly even admit it to herself—but she was relieved to be so close to him again, after trying so hard to push him away.

His lips now ghosted the shell of her ear. "No one," he said, with quiet resolution, "comes close to _you_." He leaned his forehead against hers, and he was gazing at her through half-lidded eyes; his breath was warm on her skin, and it seemed that her world had narrowed to just him, in this moment, in the moonlit forest. "Look, I don't have all the answers either," he said softly. "Two weeks is a crazy-short amount time, but I'm already so in love with you I can barely breathe. I can't explain it; all I know is that it is."

A blush crept up her face. Her eyes fluttered close, and she swallowed, unable to speak; an unfamiliar happiness thrummed through her body, about to burst from her skin. She had never been schmaltzy or sentimental, but right now, she supposed she could make this exception for him.

"We don't have to think about what'll happen to us in a few months, or even after a few dates," he said. "We can take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. At whatever pace you'd like."

 _A few dates_ … She bit her lip, feeling her old apprehension return. There was a reason she avoided him so assiduously, and she'd disguised that reason in so many other layers of peripheral truths that she'd almost lost sight of it; but now that he'd brought it up, it emerged from the debris of her logic, demanding to be noticed.

Caitlin took a deep breath. If anything was to happen between them, she had to tell him this.

"I think—"

"Oh, that can't be good," he teased.

She wrinkled her nose at him and continued slowly, "I think I need some time alone to let this all sink in. No, wait, let me finish." She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze to ease his alarm. "Barry, I'm terrified. That was the problem—I'm completely terrified of this. Of going out with you and being with you." She swallowed. "I was avoiding you because I like you enough to know you could hurt me, and I don't want to get hurt. I figured that if I cut you off first, you wouldn't be able to hurt me."

His expression mellowed. "I wish I could say something like 'I'll never hurt you,'" he said, "but that'd be a lie. I think the more you let someone in, the more power you give them to hurt you. So I get what you're saying." His grip on her hand tightened. "But I think it'll all be worth it in the end."

"You don't know that," she said.

"But we never know anything for sure, anyway," he said. "Even the most thoroughly researched predictions turn out wrong, and even the most improbable events come to happen, against all odds." He flashed her a boyish smile. "As for me, I'm willing to take a chance on this"—he gestured between them—"improbable event."

She shook her head and huffed a laugh. "For once, I don't think I can argue with that logic." He beamed, but she continued, "But I still need to let this all sink in. I just came to terms with everything, and it's still extremely confusing…"

"Okay," he said softly. "Okay. I understand. But promise me you won't shut me out again," he pleaded. "I don't think I can bear any more of that. And besides, I'm running out of ideas for voicemails…"

She smiled, amused. "Alright," she said. "I promise I won't."

"So… when'll you talk to me again?" he grinned.

She pursed her lips. "Maybe after a week?"

"A week?!" he said, and then he cleared his throat and amended, "I mean, alright, sure, a week. I think I can do a week."

She rolled her eyes fondly. "Thank you," she said, and, on impulse, she tilted her head to press a kiss on his jaw.

He looked surprised, but he recovered quickly with a mischievous smile. "Can I have more of those to get me through the week?" he said. "Like, one for each day—"

"Don't push your luck," she said, and he laughed.

"I'm kidding," he said. "Really, take your time. Just, you know, not _too much_ time. Okay, to be honest, I can't wait for next week to come…"

"You really have no patience, do you?"

"Absolutely none," he chirped. "But when it comes to you, I guess I have a little bit more than my baseline patience."

"How romantic," she said dryly, and he grinned.

"Now _that_ I have a ton of," he said.

"Well, _I_ don't have a romantic bone in my body," she said, with a teasing smile, "but when it comes to you, I guess I have a bit more than a scaphoid to spare."

He laughed. "I'll take it," he said, brushing his lips on the inside of her wrist, right where her scaphoid was. When he looked up at her again, his eyes were shining with mirth. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Yes we are," she said quietly. "We definitely are."

They fell into a comfortable silence, surrounded by the soft rustling of leaves, the glow of streetlamps along the well-worn path, and the smell of the earth.

After a few moments, Caitlin ventured to speak.

"By the way, how're you feeling?" she asked. "After that meet…"

"Oh… I'm still upset about it," he said. "But it was partly my fault—Hunter was a new contender so I might've underestimated him—but you win some, you lose some, I guess." He pulled away briefly to give her a pout. "I'm really hurt you didn't come, though."

"You'll get over it," she said dryly.

"The least you could do is kiss the hurt better," he said, and she swatted his arm. "Ow, ow—fine, fine, I'll stop soliciting kisses… But can I at least have a hug?"

He grinned, and she sighed.

"Fine. One second."

"…Are you seriously giving me a hug time limit?"

"No such thing as free lunch, as they say."

"But hugs are supposed to be free!"

"Not in my currency," she returned.

"Well, how about two seconds?" he wheedled, giving her the smile that she couldn't resist. "I mean, I _was_ second place and all…"

She pretended to consider it. "I suppose that's fair."

"Yesss!" he cheered, disentangling his hands from hers to spread his arms open for the hug, but she pushed him back lightly at the shoulders.

"Wait, don't you have a party to go to?"

"A par—oh, that. That can wait," he said. "Not fair. You're doing that on purpose."

She tilted her head to the side innocently. "Doing what on purpose?"

"Cait, seriously, this is the worst time to make me wait," he said, petulant. "I would really like to avail of my hug now, please."

She smiled. Oh, she missed him. She really missed him. "Well, since you asked so nicely…"

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he quickly pulled her flush against him, his arms strong around her waist. He let out a contented sigh and buried his face in the crook of her neck, and she closed her eyes and melted into his embrace.

They stayed like that for far longer than two seconds, but neither of them were counting.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes:** I know it's been five months, but… Look! An update! Sorry I've been gone awhile. This chapter was tough, life's been tough, being newly unemployed is tough, etc. etc. Anyway, I miss you all. This is more of a friendship chapter, since I want to wrap up all the loose ends and lay the groundwork for the last plot point. After this, I'm estimating we have 1-2 more chapters to go and then an epilogue (AAAAH! Can you believe it?!) so I hope you'll stick around. :)

 _ **Some shout-outs:**_ _To Gaby, as always, for the encouragement, and in celebration of our three-year long friendship on this site. To panalegs27 on Tumblr, for the unwavering enthusiastic support and the messages that make me smile. To PurpleYin, who, to my great surprise and delight, left a review on all my stories and on every chapter in this fic (!). To Random Lurker, for leaving such a sweet review; it made my terrible day better. And last but not the least, to Of Pencils and Penguins (formerly The Pickle System), who beta-read this chapter in a flash (pun fully intended)—he fixed all the pesky grammatical errors, cleaned up my dialogue, and pointed out the scenes that needed tweaking or rewriting. I can't thank you enough. This chapter won't be what it is without your help. :)_

 **Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own The Flash.

* * *

Barry parted ways with her outside of her dorm, and as she moved from the open, starry night to the closed, fluorescent-lit hallways of the building to her dark, unoccupied room, unease replaced the earlier sense of lightness she'd felt. She'd been harboring this sense of unease since her fight with Felicity yesterday, but her anxiety about the orals and about Barry had dominated such a large portion of her emotional landscape that this unease had receded into the background.

But now, faced with a Felicity-less room, which had been voided of the sounds of their easy companionship—the scrape of the wheels of her chair against the floor, the quick, light tapping of her fingers on her laptop, the rip of Swiss Miss packets at the end of a long day—Caitlin felt the unease return with a vengeance.

She slumped into her chair. How was it that she managed to push two people who were important to her away in the space of a week? For someone who'd always thought of herself as self-sufficient and fiercely independent, she was realizing how emotionally affected she could be when the relationships in her life went awry.

Well, at least she knew Felicity better than she did Barry. She knew, for instance, that her friend dealt with her hurt by avoiding its cause, and that while she was in this avoidance phase, it was best to give her space. But she also knew that approaching her first was already winning half the battle. So it boiled down to timing—intuiting when enough time had passed since the avoidance started, and intuiting when the best time was to approach her.

It was, she supposed, the same way Felicity would tiptoe around her when she was deep in work mode, hazarding guesses at the best time to disturb her. She had guessed wrong yesterday—had prodded her at the wrong time, in the wrong way—and much to her shame, she had exploded.

She grimaced. She could call Oliver right now to ask if he'd seen her, but she was already so tired. There'd been more emotions packed into this day than she'd had in her entire twenty-something years of existence, and even if some of those emotions were pleasant, she still felt incredibly drained.

Tomorrow, then, she thought, crawling into her bed. She'd apologize tomorrow.

* * *

The next day, Caitlin set about to look for her friend in all her usual haunts, but as expected, she couldn't find her in any of them. She texted Cisco on the off-chance that he'd seen her, but he merely replied with, "? u can call her? and aren't u roommates" and, a few seconds later, "OH wait r u fighting :( idk where she is bt i hope u make up soon".

So she had no choice but to give Oliver a call, which, in the first place, had been the most logical thing to do.

…But also the most awkward, because she and Oliver weren't exactly on calling terms. There was also the fact that she had been staunchly against them when Felicity had really started liking him. Sure, she'd been the one to dare her to talk to him, but she'd done it because she'd believed that her friend had more common sense than to fall for the shallowest rich boy on campus, and because she didn't think that Felicity was Oliver's type.

Needless to say, Felicity did not have as much common sense as she'd expected, and Oliver turned out to be decent under his party-boy exterior. While she was right in guessing that Felicity wasn't his type, she hadn't guessed that he'd fall for her anyway. He'd liked Felicity so much that, upon sensing Caitlin's unspoken antagonism, sought to prove all her previous notions of him wrong—he cleaned up his act, stopped flirting with every leggy girl he came across, and stopped hanging out with the shadier cliques in the popular crowd—until she finally came to accept them together.

Still, that didn't mean they would be besties, or that they'd take to each other the same way Felicity had taken to Digg and Barry and Tommy and the rest of Oliver's friends. They were content to regard each other with civility.

Which brought her back to her current dilemma: She and Oliver were civil, but not on calling terms.

She sighed. Well, it wasn't like she had much of a choice. They would have to be on calling terms now if they both cared about Felicity.

Having decided on her course of action, she sent him a short text to ask when he was free to take a call. His answer was immediate: "Now is good." He picked up on the first ring.

"Hey. You're looking for Felicity?" he said.

Well, if there was one thing Caitlin respected him for, it was his propensity for cutting right to the chase.

"Yes," she said. "Did she stay over at your place?"

"Yeah," he said. "But she left for class this morning, and she hasn't been back yet. I thought she'd headed to the dorm."

Caitlin frowned. "Well… she's definitely not here."

"Oh." There was a pause. "She's… been really down the past few days," he ventured tentatively. "Said something about this being a replay of sophomore year, but didn't go into the specifics."

"Oh," she said.

"Care to elaborate?" His tone was careful. "I mean, when my girlfriend and one of my best friends share a bottle of Smirnoff from my bar because of the same person, I feel like I deserve an explanation from the said person."

Caitlin winced. "Can said person just buy you another bottle of Smirnoff instead?"

"Nice try," he said wryly. "Spare me the details with Barry, I know way too much already. I just want to hear about the whole… sophomore year thing. If… that's okay. She—she usually tells me everything, and I can't—I don't know how to talk to her if she doesn't—talk. To me."

When he said those last two sentences, Oliver sounded as if he was having a nail extracted for every word he spoke. She could almost see his grimace deepening the more he talked. Strangely enough, it comforted her, because this was something she could identify with. He was nearly as emotionally stunted as she was, stripped of that glamorous façade, and she imagined that she had the same expression that he had now whenever she talked about her feelings. Granted, this was the same reason they couldn't be friends, and were instead friends with people like Felicity and Barry who were so open about their feelings that they were practically begging to be taken advantage of, but still. This kind of kinship was also comforting. Painfully awkward, but comforting.

So Caitlin took a deep breath and proceeded to tell him about sophomore year—the year they had their first real fight as friends.

It happened towards the end of their first term as sophomores. She'd been swamped with so many requirements and had been putting so much pressure on herself that she'd turned down all of Felicity's invitations to parties, dinners, and even their hallowed Sunday lunches. Sometimes she didn't even bother to acknowledge her in the room, because she didn't want a break in her concentration. This went on for a month, until Felicity gave up trying to talk to her altogether. She avoided all their usual haunts and materialized in their room only to sleep. It was a miserable few months for both of them (and for Cisco, who'd shuttled back and forth between them), and it went on for as long as it did because, ironically, it had been easier to keep snubbing each other than to break their deadlock.

"Eventually, I just swallowed my pride and just went up to her during lunch. And even before I said anything, she burst out crying and hugged me," Caitlin said.

He chuckled. "That sounds like her."

"It does, doesn't it?" she said. She decided to leave out the embarrassingly sappy things they told each other that time, like when Felicity told her, in between hiccups, _You know, real talk—I'd get over a breakup with a guy faster than a breakup with you. Like, a friend break-up. Because guys are so… replaceable, you know? And there's only one of you, and… where'll I ever find another Caitlin Snow?_

She didn't think Oliver would respond favorably to that.

After their tearful reunion, though, they'd implicitly agreed never to talk about that time again. It seemed they both knew that the smooth continuation of their friendship hinged on completely burying that hatchet. So Felicity continued to tiptoe around her when she was busy, and continued to clam up when she was hurt. Maybe that was why she thought that her recent blow-up was an echo of sophomore year.

"She's in Jitters, by the way," Oliver said. "She told me not to tell you, but I don't like seeing her miserable, and I don't think I'm the person to cheer her up."

"Oh," she said. "Um, thanks."

"Yeah," he said. "Just… go talk to her. And make sure that she doesn't steal too many drinks from my bar."

Her lips lifted into a small smile. "The former, I can promise. The latter, not so much."

 **. . .**

In a way, it made sense that Felicity was at Jitters. Since she knew that Caitlin was avoiding Barry, and that Barry frequented Jitters, then she must have thought that there was a good chance that Caitlin would also avoid Jitters.

It didn't take long to spot Felicity's messy high ponytail in the crowd, and she was so deeply absorbed in her work that she didn't even feel her approach.

"Hey," Caitlin said, touching her shoulder, and Felicity immediately startled in her seat.

"Oh my God! Don't scare me like th—"

When she saw it was her, though, she schooled her expression into a neutral one. The change was so dramatic that it unnerved her.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to scare you." God, she was terrible at this. "Can I… Is this seat taken?"

"No."

This was agonizing. Any dim hope she'd harbored of this being like their first make-up was quashed.

"Felicity," she said. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

Silence. And then, "Okay."

"Okay as in…?"

She shrugged. "It's fine."

It was decidedly not fine. Felicity was not as adept at hiding her emotions as she thought, because Caitlin could see her _trying_ to hide them. "Felicity…"

Silence. And then, softly, "I've been tiptoeing around you for years, did you know that?" she said. "No, wait—you probably never noticed, but I've been doing it since we started rooming together. Since our first year. When things would get busy—for both of us, not just for you—you would transform into this ticking time bomb. One wrong move on my part, and you'd explode."

Caitlin sat very still. "I… never knew," she said. "It's just…"

She trailed off. She was about to say that it was a bad habit she'd picked up from her father, who'd regarded disturbances—a category which even his young, too-inquisitive daughter and his flaky wife fell into—with murderous intent, so everyone had always adjusted to him without question or complaint. But this sounded like an excuse, and in a rare flash of human insight, Caitlin saw that an excuse wouldn't save their friendship.

So she held her tongue.

Felicity continued, "Every time you get like that, I have to worry about how to get you to eat and function like a normal human being without risking our friendship. Do you know how tiring that gets?"

Caitlin exhaled. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I never meant you to feel like…" She paused to gather the right words. "Like I'd only be friends with you if you never made me mad."

"Yeah, but that's how you come off sometimes," Felicity said. "Would it hurt to say, 'Hey, Felicity, I'm really stressed and I don't want to talk about it now'? It's not hard. I mean, I let you know when I'm about to binge-code so you'd know better than to expect me to clean my part of the room for the rest of the week."

"Or shower, for that matter," Caitlin couldn't help saying. When she realized her misstep she quickly amended it with, "Sorry—"

"God, _not relevant_ , Cait," Felicity said.

"Sorry," Caitlin said. She'd unknowingly slipped back into their usual easy banter at the worst possible time. "Sorry."

Her friend's expression was now shuttered, and Caitlin had the sinking feeling that she'd blown her attempt at reconciliation.

The silence stretched between them.

"Felicity," she finally said, unable to bear it, "I'm sorry, I really am. Please don't shut me out."

"Oh, you mean like what you do to me?"

Caitlin winced. The accusation rang so true that it hurt. The silence grew more and more tense the longer those words hung in the air, and she frantically reached for something appropriate to say.

"I… It… was wrong of me… to do that to you," she said quietly. "You didn't deserve any of it." A pause. "I've been an asshole friend. I'm sorry."

Felicity fiddled with the keys of her laptop. She gave no indication of having heard her.

A crazy sense of desperation seized her. She felt like she would do anything— _anything_ —to get Felicity to talk to her, anything to draw her out of that silence. It made her painfully aware that this was the same emotional distress she put Felicity (and Barry, for that matter) through whenever she gave her the cold shoulder. She would never do this again, she thought vehemently. She would never make her friends—her _best friend_ —feel this shitty ever again, if said best friend would still care to talk to her… No wonder Felicity had burst out crying last time the moment she approached. Any move to break this kind of silence would have brought on waves of delirious relief.

Felicity continued fiddling with her keys. She uncrossed her legs. She leaned back against her chair. She let out a breath, and since it was so quiet between them, Caitlin could tell that this breath was a beat longer than was normal. She seemed to be on the verge of speaking.

Caitlin held her breath.

"You're not an asshole friend," she finally said. She still wasn't looking at her, but at least she was talking to her. _She was talking to her._ "You just… revert to assholic behavior when stressed."

That was it. That was Felicity's olive branch. Caitlin would have sagged in her seat from sheer relief, but she had to play this right.

"Assholic behavior," she said carefully.

"What," her friend said, finally looking at her, "you're not used to Feliciticisms yet?" A small smile stretched across her face.

Caitlin blinked. She _smiled_. Definitely a good sign. Definitely a sign to play along, to ease back into the usual banter of their friendship. "I still can't figure out how you say that," she said. "Felicisms would have been a lot easier on the tongue."

"Yeah, but I'm a Felicity, not a Felici," she said. "Although, come to think of it, Felici sounds a lot chicer."

"True." Caitlin paused and took a risk. "Probably why it doesn't suit you."

"Hey. You were the one who proposed Felicism."

She tried to contain her smile. "Because it would be easier to pronounce, not because you look like a Felici."

"Same banana."

"No, they're not. And for the record, there are more than 1,000 discovered varieties of bananas in the world."

"Okay, just, _no_ ," Felicity said. "How do you even know stuff like that?"

"The same way you know who invented ramen."

"Technically, Momofuku Ando invented _instant noodles_ , not…" She trailed off. "…Right. Point taken."

Caitlin nodded. "The internet is a dark place."

"Ah, yes. Two young, impressionable women frequenting websites with lurid pictures of bananas and noodles—positively scandalous."

They shared a smile.

"Just…" Felicity said, sobering, "give me that heads-up, okay? So I know how to help you. Like how you know to fix my bed and buy me takeout when I'm binge-coding, or how you let me whine about how hard troubleshooting a faulty segment is, even if you have zero idea of what I'm talking about."

Honestly, Caitlin would've agreed to anything at this point. "Okay," she said. "I can't promise I'll always be able to do it, but I'll try. I'll really try."

"You better," Felicity said, grinning. "We've been friends for almost seven years. I'd say it merits some amount of trying."

"Well, seven years is only slightly longer than some marriages, after all," she mused. "I can manage more than some amount of trying."

Felicity's smile softened. "So. Friends?"

"Friends," she said, returning her smile. "Seven years and counting." She paused. "I think we're supposed to hug at this point, but can I just give you a mental hug? I've reached my sappiness limit for the day."

Felicity laughed. "Mental hug accepted. I knew there was something weird about you today."

"Well, I _was_ apologizing to you. I had to summon the appropriate amount of sappiness."

"Have you been manipulating me with sappiness?"

"I wouldn't call it manipulation," Caitlin said primly. "It's more like scheduling sappiness usage for a rainy day."

"By scheduling sappiness," Felicity said, her smile turning wicked, "do you also mean the Saturday night you spent with a certain Bartholomew Henry Allen under the stars?"

"That was an unscheduled and unintentional leakage of sappiness," Caitlin said. "And how much do you already know, anyway?"

"Only that you kissed," Felicity said with feigned nonchalance. "No big deal. It was only your _first kiss,_ after all, which you kept a secret for _almost a week_ from your best friend, your companion since girlhood, the sister of your heart—"

"Are you done with the melodramatics?" she said dryly.

"—oh, wait, I'll have to call Cisco and Jax," Felicity said, pulling her phone out. "They need to hear this. It's more time-efficient, too, since you'll only have to tell the story once."

"Time-efficient," Caitlin repeated. "You're talking to me about time efficiency."

"What can I say, I've picked up a thing or two after seven years of being a Caitlin Snow scholar. Although," she mused, "it looks like I'll soon have to relinquish that title soon, since Barry is proving to be a quick study…"

"Felicity, you're rambling," Caitlin said.

"That was hardly—oh, fine, calling them."

Caitlin casted a furtive glance around them and added, "Can you tell them that we'll meet in front of the library instead? Jitters is kind of—"

"His turf, right," Felicity said. "Got it." She tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder, and slipped her laptop into her bag. "Hey Cisco, any chance you're free now…?"

 **. . .**

"Ola, ladies," Cisco said, making his way to their table with his usual grin. Even from afar, they heard him coming by the tinkle of the many keychains he'd hung all over his backpack. "Glad to see you two have reconciled. I thought I'd have to be your messenger again or something."

"Yeah, well," Felicity said. "Signs of maturity, I guess."

"Boring," Cisco said. "In a good way, I mean. No one needs drama all the time, am I right?"

"You sure? Because Caitlin has a lot of drama for us."

"Oooh, saucy. You sure are getting a lot of drama lately, come to think of it," Cisco said. "Where was all this in high school? And in the last, I don't know, two years in college—"

"I don't know, Cisco, I don't think one can space out the dramatic events in one's life."

"Rhetorical question, _chica_ ," he said, waving a hand. "I'm sure you know what that is…"

"What's up, guys," Jax said, sliding into the seat beside Cisco. He pocketed his phone and dropped his duffel bag to the ground. "You gonna update us on Barry or what?"

"Well," Caitlin said, "somewhat."

"I am so excited," Felicity said. "I can't wait to hear your version of the kiss."

"THE KISS?!" Cisco gaped. "Whoa, okay, slow down, this is too much—"

"I haven't even started yet…"

"Her version?" Jax interjected, looking at Felicity. "What's the other version?"

"Dude," Cisco said. "I can't believe that's what you fixated on."

"I heard it first from Barry," Felicity said, waving a hand. "Anyway, long story, and not exactly relevant—"

"Not exactly rele—Felicity, what _was_ his version?" Caitlin said suddenly. "What did he tell you?"

"Oh, pretty vague stuff," she said. "Mostly it was about you breaking his heart."

Cisco blinked. "Is it just me, or are things moving way too fast?"

"Last I heard you weren't even sure if he liked you," Jax said, also confused, "and now you already broke up? And if you"—he gestured to Felicity—"and Barry're tight, why'd you have to ask _us_ for advice instead of going straight to him?"

"Well," Felicity mused, "a little Smirnoff goes a long way in solidifying friendships…"

"She and Barry shared a bottle of vodka between them the other night," Caitlin clarified. "Well, technically, it was Oliver's vodka, but yeah."

"Dang," Jax said. "Can I get an invite to one of those in the future?"

"Yeah, it'd be nice to hang out at Oliver's pad again," Cisco said wistfully. "That sound system is to die for…"

"Wait," Felicity said suddenly, turning to her, "that's how you knew where to find me—you called Oliver and Oliver told you, that traitor—"

"Yes?" Caitlin said. "You thought I just guessed?"

"Well, I didn't really—okay, never mind, we're getting way off topic," she amended. "So, Cait, tell us what happened last Saturday."

"We all saw the sing-off," Cisco said smugly. "And boy, you owe me big time for that—"

"It would've been better if you'd given me more drinks," she muttered. "No chance kissing him if I'd passed out."

Cisco ignored her. "—and we saw you slow-dancing to that weird _Despacito_ remix," he said. "Well, Felicity and I did. Jax probably didn't."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, to fill you in, they slow-danced to a _Despacito_ remix."

He gave Cisco a withering look. "I grasped the concept, thanks."

"You're caught up, then," Caitlin said, pleased. "So after the slow-dancing, we went up to the balcony—"

"The one for VIPs?" Jax said.

"Yes, the one for VIPs," she said. "Anyway, I was slightly tipsy. As a result of faulty judgment, I leaned in to kiss him. I quickly realized that it was a mistake, so I left and ignored him for a week. But we made up again just yesterday, so everything's fine now."

A beat.

"You know, you gotta brush up on your storytelling skills," Cisco said.

"For a moment there I thought I was listening to a weather report," Jax said.

"Well," Caitlin bristled, "it's not exactly something I want to recount in detail—"

"How did it happen? How did you let it happen? What did you feel?" Cisco insisted, accompanying his words with hand gestures. "What did he do? What did he say? What did you say? What were you thinking?"

"As I've mentioned, I _wasn't_ thinking—"

"Okay, I think we're overwhelming her," Felicity said. "Cisco, only one question at a time. Ask her again."

"Oh! Oh! I'll start with this one," Cisco said, grinning. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret asking this, but I am _way_ curious, so here goes." He took a deep breath. "Was there tongue?"

"Oh my God—"

"OH MY GOD," Cisco said. "OH MY GOD, THERE WAS, WASN'T THERE?"

"OH MY GOD," Felicity said. "THERE WAS, CISCO, _THERE WAS_ —"

"…The hell is going on?" Jax said. "She hasn't answered the question yet?"

"If you're fluent in Caitlin," Felicity explained, "you'd know that if it isn't a direct no, then it's a definite yes."

"Huh," Jax said.

"Damn," Cisco said to Caitlin admiringly. "So you've finally lost your tongue-ginity. Welcome to the club."

Jax scrunched his brow. "I never signed up for that club."

"Did we ever make that a thing?" Felicity said. "I don't think we ever made that a thing."

"We totally did. We made it a thing in high school, when I was with Kendra, remember? After we made out in the—"

"Okay, stop," Felicity said. "I vaguely remember you breaking down that make-out scene, and I don't want to remember more."

"I second the motion," Caitlin said.

"Third," Jax piped up.

"Fine, this is Caitlin's show anyway," Cisco said good-naturedly. "It's _your_ turn to give us details."

"No."

They were all unfazed. "Did he lean in first?" Felicity said. "Or did you?"

Caitlin paused to consider it. "I'm not sure," she said. "I think we—it was done at the same time."

"And it lasted for some time," Cisco prompted, "since there was tongue."

"Well, it wasn't _un_ pleasant," she hedged, "so we were there for some time, but I was the one who put an end to it."

"Okay, let me get this straight," Jax said. "You guys made out and you were really into it, but for some reason, you walked away and ignored him after that."

"…It doesn't sound very nice if you put it that way, but yes."

"So… what made you ignore him?" Felicity said. "I'd always assumed that he said something stupid, but…"

"Well," Caitlin said, "he mentioned that we've only known each other for two weeks."

"Which is true," Cisco said.

"Yes, it is," she said. "Still, I lost it. I just didn't think that it was possible—for me, at least—to like someone in such a short time. I was scared of it, of myself, so… I ran away. Ignored him. Pretended like ignoring him could reset myself to who I was before I met him."

Her statement hung in the air. It was perhaps the most honest she'd been since last week's debacle, and they seemed to feel it, too.

"Okay, since things are getting serious," Cisco said, standing up, "anyone want some food? Nachos, maybe?"

"Dude," Jax said. "Way to ruin a moment—"

"No, I'm pretty sure Cait doesn't want to talk about her feelings on an empty stomach," he said, grinning at her. "Just like how you won't study chemistry on an empty stomach."

Caitlin smiled. "It's fine, Jax. Nachos with beef and bacon bits please."

"And extra cheese," Felicity piped in.

"And Diet Coke with no ice," Caitlin said.

"Same, but with ice and no straw for me," Felicity said. "Save the environment and all."

"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill," Cisco said. "Hey, man, how about you?"

Jax looked at them. "You guys are hella weird."

"But?" Cisco prompted cheekily.

He shrugged. "You're not bad."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Barry does this thing where I'm not sure if he's complimenting or insulting me," Caitlin said. "Is that an athlete thing?"

"Way to stereotype us," Jax said. "And I'm pretty sure that's called a backhanded compliment."

Caitlin snapped her fingers. "I knew there was a word for it…"

Cisco went to buy their snacks, and when he came back, the conversation—even with nachos and the best of intentions (particularly Felicity's)—didn't quite stay on track. It was, as usual, one-part insight and three-parts insanity, but Caitlin didn't mind. It was good to be in their company again.

* * *

When Monday came around, Caitlin had the uncanny feeling, as she walked out of her dorm, that she was being stared at.

It wasn't something she realized right away, because after all, she'd spent most of her formative years in a state of near-invisibility. The only exception to that was when teachers announced the highest score in class (which, in science subjects, would almost invariably be her) and she would, for a few minutes, be the spotlight of the everyone's awe and envy. But in general, she drew no stares and elicited no whispers whenever she entered the cafeteria or passed through hallways. Smart wasn't as valuable a currency as pretty or sporty was in high school, and she was perfectly content with that, as she never had to expend energy with the sort of self-conscious thinking that came with assuming that her peers were interested in her.

But today, something strange happened. As she walked down the near-deserted hallway of her dorm—it was still early, and the lone souls who were already awake walked around like zombies in their bubbles of half-sleep—she registered the sound of voices in the early morning hush. Out of idle curiosity, she looked around until she found the source of the whisperings—a group of five freshmen, two of whom quickly turned away when her gaze settled on them.

She blinked, wondering if she'd imagined it, and then quickly concluded that she must have. Freshmen, she thought, were especially prone to sticking in groups and over-sharing noisily, in hopes that it might translate into friendship.

But then it happened again. When she passed by two more groups of girls outside the dorm and sensed the tickle of whispers in her wake, she wondered if maybe her intuition was right.

So when, upon reaching the foyer and seeing Eliza and Bette deep in conversation before abruptly falling quiet at her approach, she narrowed her eyes and said, "Not you, too."

Bette raised a brow. "Hi, Caitlin."

Eliza said, "Good morning to you too, sunshine."

Caitlin sighed and took her seat across them. With a cursory look, she ascertained that three of the boys from her block were there—no sign of Hartley yet—along with two other people from Applied Chemistry (or was it Chemical Engineering? She could never really keep track). Most of them were half-asleep, using their backpacks to pillow their faces from the cool granite surface of the tables.

"Sorry," she said. "I've been having this strange sensation this morning that people have been talking about me. Paranoid, I know—"

Eliza and Bette exchanged glances. Like she and Felicity, they had been friends for so long that they were able to communicate just by looking at each other.

Caitlin was immediately suspicious. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Eliza said innocently.

"That look you just shared. It's suspicious."

Bette, who was usually quiet—even more than she was, probably because she was always with the animated Eliza—said, amused, "Aren't we allowed to look at each other?"

"I think," Eliza added with a sly smile, "we're allowed to a few secrets, since you've obviously been keeping yours."

Caitlin paused. She knew that these girls meant well—they had a pleasant relationship formed on the basis of their being stranded together in a testosterone-dominated course—but she wasn't comfortable divulging her feelings to them in the way she had with Felicity, Cisco, and Jax. They were the kind of friends she'd complain about coursework with, not the ones she'd have a heart-to-heart conversation with.

She said cautiously, "If this is about the sing-off…"

"Oh, the sing-off was last week's news," Eliza said.

"It's already been dissected to death while you weren't around," Bette said with an apologetic smile. "Everyone knows now that you're Barry Allen's new girl."

Caitlin blinked, feeling strangely violated—or rather _erased_ —by the term. "Okay, no," she said. "First of all, I am _not_ 'Barry Allen's new girl.' I'm still me. I'm still the same Caitlin Snow majoring in Molecular Biology with you."

"Sure, Cait," Eliza said, smiling at her while propping her face up in cupped hands. "But you two are clearly a thing."

"We're not…" Caitlin trailed off when she realized she didn't have anything to say to that, because what _were_ they? They hadn't gone out on a date yet, so they weren't dating, but they weren't a thing, either. Or… were they? In the first place, why in the world did people invent a term as vague as 'a thing' anyway? What spectrum of togetherness did 'a thing' encompass? And why was it that even before she and Barry decided what they were, other people were already clamoring to define their relationship with nosy collective authority? Couldn't they just mind their own business and leave a budding romantic relationship unlabeled?

Caitlin resisted the urge to press a hand to her temple. She couldn't deal with this. It was too early in the morning to puzzle out the confusing semantics of human romantic entanglements.

Instead, she said, "Never mind. Second of all, _last week's news?_ Was there news this week involving him and me that _I_ , of all people, wouldn't know of?"

"Oh, I'm sure you know this," Eliza said, giving her an enigmatic look. Caitlin felt like that look was her cue to spill what she apparently knew, but since she _didn't_ know anything, she remained quiet.

"If you'll remember," Eliza went on, "there was a commotion last night at the dorm. Specifically, outside our wing."

"What commotion?" Caitlin said, furrowing her brow.

Now, Eliza and Bette exchanged looks that were as bewildered as hers.

"You mean you _didn't_ hear the commotion?" Bette said.

"No," Caitlin said. "Should I have?"

"Oh my God, she has no idea," Eliza said. "One of the hottest guys on campus is courting her—"

"Courting—of all the sheer _nonsense_ —"

"—and she doesn't have a clue," Eliza finished.

"That is ridiculous," she said. "I don't know what commotion you're talking about, but he's _not_ courting me. All I know is that he left a note on my window with 'Good morning' written on it."

That was the abbreviated version. The full version was as follows:

 _Good morning :) I know, I know, when I walked you back, you said one week of no texts or calls or voicemails, but I'm pretty sure you didn't say anything about sticky notes on windows. I'm kind of a pain in the ass, as you can see, aside from being a mildly annoying campus cutie and an insatiable hug monster (only for your hugs, though). Just so you know what you might be getting into. Anyway, I lost my main point for this note sometime after the smiley. I think I was supposed to write a poem, but I got sidetracked, and now I don't have enough space. Well, I'll find my main point tomorrow. In the meantime, 'I miss you' is probably enough. Can't wait for Saturday. – Barry_

"Mmm," Bette said. "So you're telling me that clambering up two floors of the girls' dorms in the middle of the night, with a bouquet of flowers, a gift, and a note in hand, doesn't qualify as courting?"

"A bouquet of flowers? How is that even—"

"At first I thought it was Cisco," Eliza said, "because he visits your room sometimes, right, and he always makes so much noise. But when I opened my window to tell him to tone it down, guess who I saw instead?"

"Oh, by the way, here you go," Bette said, pulling a single, long-stemmed rose from her backpack and handing it to a dazed Caitlin. "Half of the flowers were crushed during his climb," she added, by way of explanation. "The others that weren't crushed lost too many petals. This was the only proper rose left." She pushed a box towards her. "Also, a gift from him. Said it was fragile."

"He was supposed to sneak the stuff into your room," Eliza said, "but he didn't know that your window would be locked. Obviously he didn't think things through."

"Yeah, he also wrote his note on the wrong side of the post-it. We had to give him tape so he could stick the written portion on the glass facing your bed," Bette said.

"Oh, and to clarify, _we_ "—Eliza said, gesturing to the two of them—"weren't the ones who gave him tape. Someone from the room below did."

"It sort of became a group effort," Bette said.

"Although his best friend—can't remember her name, the one who wrote that article about sexism on campus—"

"Iris West," Bette said.

"Right, her. She clearly didn't support it," Eliza said. "Stormed out of the dorm when she caught wind of what was happening just to tell him that he was an idiot."

"She wasn't yelling, but it was so quiet out there that people could hear what she was saying, anyway."

"Good thing our dorm mom sleeps like a log."

"Yeah, and good thing everyone loves Barry, so no one'll tell on him…"

"It's really strange that you didn't hear anything," Bette said, looking puzzled. "He made so much noise."

It wasn't all that strange. She and Felicity slept through the commotion courtesy of the remaining contents of the Smirnoff, the one she'd brought back from her drinking session with Barry.

"Hello, ladies," came a voice that Caitlin knew all too well. "Finally got to interrogate her, huh? Do I finally get my—is that a _rose?_ Why the hell do you have a rose?"

"Language, Hartley," Bette said. "As you can see, the subject is still in shock."

"The rose is from Allen, isn't it?" Hartley said, scoffing. "Jesus, how predictable. Even I can tell you aren't the roses kind."

"Thank you for your valuable input, Hartley," Eliza said. "Why don't you run along now and compare notes with Barry, since you're such an expert on Caitlin's botanical preferences?"

"Dial down the bitchiness, sweetheart," Hartley said. "It's not even nine yet."

"The rose isn't the worst of it, really," Bette said.

"Oh?" Hartley said gleefully, smirking and pulling up a chair from the other table, seeing as Caitlin's backpack was still occupying the space beside her. "Do tell. Does the worst of it have something to do with this box?"

Caitlin finally snapped out of the daze she was in. She was having difficulty processing all… _this_. She needed another coffee. Maybe three. "I'm having difficulty imagining how he moved from the staircase to the window holding all this…"

"He had the bouquet in his mouth," Eliza said.

Hartley's brows shot up. "What," he said, "the fuck?"

"What he said," Caitlin muttered.

"She was _kidding_ ," Bette said, giving Eliza a stern look. "He had a canvas bag."

Eliza laughed. "Fine, but you have to admit you can totally imagine it."

Hartley rolled his eyes. "I actually find it more unlikely that he had the foresight to bring a bag."

"Well, are you going to open it?" Eliza said, gesturing to the box. "Bette and I have been dying to see what's inside."

Caitlin gave them a look, and Eliza said, "Hey, you can't blame us. We've been safekeeping it for the last seven hours."

"This really is beneath me," Hartley said casually, "but I _am_ curious to see what sort of disgustingly sentimental gift he got you. Gifts are a reflection of the giver, as someone once said. Can't remember who it was, though…"

"You know, you can admit you're curious without having to insult anyone," Caitlin said.

"Where's the fun in that?" he smirked. "Well? Are you opening it or not? We don't have all day, Frosty."

Caitlin sighed and relented, if only out of weariness. She opened the box without ceremony—there was no wrapper so she simply had to lift the flap—and peered inside. Three other heads neared to peer in, too.

It was a cactus.

On the flap, it said, _I already got the roses when I saw this, but this is way better. You're more of a cactus person, I think. ;) – Barry_

Hartley barked a laugh. "I take it back. Allen is a fucking genius."

"I don't know," Bette said dubiously. "It sounds like an insult."

"It's definitely an insult," Eliza said. " _You're more of a cactus person_ —does that mean you have the qualities of a cactus?"

"He's not wrong," Hartley said. "Caitlin's botanical identity aside, though," he added, "everyone still owes me money, because she obviously accepted his advances…"

Caitlin, on her part, had already tuned them out. Barry Allen was a hopeless romantic and a complete idiot, and he also possibly had a screw or two loose, but he meant well, and he really and truly seemed to like her, and he was…

He was hers to like back.

Still, he had to stop climbing walls in the middle of the night to give her… whatever else he was planning on giving her. She had no clue about what courtship entailed, but she was sure that it didn't have to be as life-threatening as he made it seem.

* * *

But Caitlin didn't think to approach him right away about this, because she didn't think he'd be sending any more gifts her way. She thought he would have desisted with the flowers and the cacti and would opt to leave only sticky notes instead.

She was wrong.

Well, not exactly. The next day, she did receive another note on her window, but she also received a heart-shaped box of chocolates and another cactus (both delivered by Cisco). This was puzzling, because she had no use whatsoever for a heart-shaped box, and she had no strong feelings about chocolates. Not that she didn't like chocolates, per se; she'd just never particularly sought them out. She didn't want them to go to waste, though, so she ate two or three pieces before welcoming Cisco and Jax to finish up the rest.

This, she thought, was surely the end of it. Surely he knew that giving her gifts _every single day_ until Saturday, for no particular reason and with no particular occasion, was an absurd and costly enterprise.

But she was wrong again. On Wednesday, she received the requisite note on her window and a teddy bear named Beary— _See what I did there? ;)_ he'd said in his note—sporting a cactus pin. (She must've forgotten to lock her window last night after Cisco and Jax had left, so he was able to slip them onto her bedside table.) Now, if the chocolates were mildly puzzling, the teddy bear was downright bewildering. She had given up stuffed animals altogether at the age of five, when her father had introduced her to illustrated encyclopedias, and if she had no use for a teddy bear back at five years old, she had even less use of it now at twenty-one. She was aware that it was common for other couples to give each other stuffed animals, but that was _other couples_. For some reason, other couples found it cute to give their significant others a reminder of a more infantile period in their lives. Or perhaps the intention was for the recipient to endow the inanimate object with some of the partner's qualities, so that it could serve as a reminder of the partner when he or she was away…

This was all just conjecture, of course. She'd never quite understood it. Even now that she herself was the recipient of a stuffed animal, she still didn't understand what she was supposed to do with it.

To be fair, Barry didn't know that she didn't particularly care for chocolates or for stuffed animals. But perhaps that was the point— _he didn't know_ what she liked, and had simply assumed she would enjoy this standard romantic fanfare.

This brought to mind something Hartley had said the other day, about gifts being a reflection of the giver. Irritating as he was, she had to agree with his assessment: These gifts were less a reflection of her than they were a reflection of Barry. They conveyed the sincerity of his intentions well enough, but they also conveyed a startling lack of knowledge of who she was.

Well, not exactly. She did enjoy the sticky notes, and the cactus symbolized an inside joke that only the two of them shared and understood. Everything else, though, puzzled her.

She didn't want to discard them, because that would mean discarding Barry's feelings, too. (And, on an aside, Beary seemed to grow cuter the longer she looked at it [him?], which made her more reluctant to discard it [him?]. She made a mental note to Google the evolutionary value of cuteness even in lifeless objects.) But at the same time, the sole function of the rose, the chocolates, and the bear was to convey Barry's intentions, which had been fulfilled the moment she'd received the gifts. Ergo, she no longer had any use for them. Was she obliged to keep these things around as relics of his affection for her? Then again, she knew that he liked her anyway, so why did she need all these things to remind her of it?

She frowned. She was trapped in a symbolic deadlock. Clearly when she confessed to him she didn't foresee that things would become this complicated—and this when they weren't even 'a thing' yet…

She sat back to view the gifts on her now-crowded bedside table and considered her situation. The most obvious course of action was to tell him to stop giving her gifts, but she could already tell that it would hurt him. But she also couldn't think of a nice way to say it. The truth—"Please stop giving me gifts, I appreciate the sentiment but I find them useless" was too harsh, while a white lie like "I don't have space to put them anymore" was too unconvincing. She could give him a list of what she liked, but she didn't want to make it seem like she was asking for more gifts. Then again, she could inform him that she simply didn't make a fuss about gifts, but clearly _he_ made a fuss about gifts, so…

Great, she was back to her earlier deadlock.

Maybe it was time to call a friend. Felicity might know what to do. And, even if she didn't, she might know how to soften a sentence like "Please stop giving me gifts, I appreciate the sentiment but I find them useless."

Right, talk to Felicity it was.

 **. . .**

But on her way out of her room, something unusual happened: She bumped into Iris West.

The fact that Iris was here on her floor was already unusual in itself. Iris lived two or three floors above her, and she didn't have close friends residing on the second floor, so Caitlin had never actually seen her in this hallway. The second unusual thing was that Iris was alone, and to her knowledge Iris was never alone—she was always either surrounded by her friends from the school paper or she was with a tall, clean-looking guy—her boyfriend, presumably.

The third unusual thing was that Iris was walking towards her now. Caitlin resisted the urge to look behind her to see if Iris was walking towards someone else, and instead she pasted on a tentative smile, the sort she reserved for people she knew only vaguely, and so wasn't sure if she should greet or not. If the person noticed the smile and greeted her, she'd return the greeting with relief; and if the person didn't notice the smile, she'd look like an idiot, but at least not as big an idiot as she would have had she uttered an ignored 'Hi'.

Iris, as it turned out, returned her smile. "Hi, Caitlin," she said, slowing when she reached her.

A greeting _and_ a slowing down. Clearly she was about to engage her in conversation. But what did Iris have to talk with her about? Did Barry send her to deliver a package, or to do some reconnaissance? But if she _was_ going to do reconnaissance, wouldn't it be wiser to approach someone closer to her, like Felicity?

"Hi?" Caitlin said.

"I'm glad I caught you on your way out," she said. "I would've messaged you first, but Facebook says you haven't been online in three days, so…"

"Sorry," Caitlin said. "I don't go online often."

"No, no, don't apologize," she said. "I mean, _I'm_ the one asking for your time. Not because I'm spying on you for Barry or anything," she added hastily. "I just wanted to talk, that's all. If you're busy, though, I could—"

"I'm not," Caitlin said. Her curiosity was sufficiently peaked. "My next class is in two hours. What did you want to talk about?"

"Great," Iris said. "Could we… talk somewhere more private, like your room? Or my room's fine, too. Gossip spreads pretty fast around here."

"My room's nearer," Caitlin said. "It's a bit of a mess, though. Well, _Felicity's_ side is a bit of a mess, so we could stay on my side…"

They both headed back to her room, and while Caitlin felt like the silence was awkward, Iris seemed completely at ease. She did look out of place in the shabby dorm room—with her red chiffon top, black leather skirt, and knee-high black boots, she looked like she'd stepped out of the pages of Vogue rather than a classroom—but she carried herself with the relaxed confidence of a person who made and followed her own rules.

"I know this is weird," Iris said, "but Barry has also been acting weird lately, so I felt like I had to do something."

"Weird, how?" Caitlin said, silently asking Felicity's permission to borrow her chair. She pulled it up beside hers in front of her desk. She gestured for Iris to sit. "I haven't known him long, but this"—she pointed to the items on her bedside table—"doesn't seem too uncharacteristic of him."

"Yeah, well, that's true," Iris said, sitting. From the direction of her gaze, Caitlin noticed the way Iris catalogued details carefully with her gaze: She scanned the usual school supplies on Caitlin's desk (a plain white mug for writing materials, another one for highlighters, and a tray for bond paper), glanced at the stack of printed journal articles with notes and post-its, and lingered on the books on her shelf— _The Double Helix_ by James Watson, _Rosalind Franklin: The Dark Lady of DNA_ by Brenda Maddox, _What Is Life?_ by Erwin Schrödinger, _Einstein's Dreams_ by Alan Lightman, and _The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales_ by Oliver Sacks—all with yellowed pages. Those books were the only memorabilia she kept on her desk.

"Why do I feel," Caitlin ventured when Iris reached the end of her quick survey, "that you're already mentally writing profile of me?"

She was aiming to sound amused, and she supposed it succeeded, because Iris gave her a sheepish smile. "Sorry," she said. "Guilty as charged. Had to convince myself that I'm doing the right thing. After seeing this, though"—she gestured to her Spartan desk and the books on display—"and that"—she gestured to her cluttered bedside table—"I'm pretty convinced. I'm guessing—no, I'm _one hundred percent sure_ that you're not the romantic type."

"Not at all," Caitlin said. And then, upon realizing that Iris might report all this to Barry, she added, "I do appreciate the sentiment, though."

"Right," Iris said, "but not the gifts."

"Well…"

"Here's the thing," Iris said, sensing her hesitation. "I thought about talking to you back when he pulled that crazy stunt in the middle of the night, but for once, I stopped myself from meddling. Which is difficult for me, since I meddle in other people's business for a living," she added with a self-deprecating smile. "But I managed. 'How bad can it be?' I thought. 'Who knows, maybe she likes flowers.' When he gave you the chocolates, I thought, 'Okay, fine, maybe she likes chocolates, too. Flowers are tricky, but chocolates are universal. Most people are nuts for chocolates.'"

Caitlin was about to say that was nuts for neither flowers nor chocolates, but Iris seemed to be on a roll, so she let her continue.

"But when he gave you that teddy bear"—she gave the poor innocent Beary a dirty look—"and _named it after him_ , that was the last straw. I said to him"—she made the phone gesture with her hand and brought it to her ear—"'You gave her a teddy bear? Are you _crazy?_ Do you even know if she likes teddy bears?' and he was like, 'But teddy bears are cute! Who doesn't like teddy bears?' and I was like, 'Barry, if Eddie'—Eddie's my boyfriend—'gave me a teddy bear, I'd either donate it to charity or _tell him to return it to the fricking store._ Honestly, how old do you think she is? _Five_?'"

At this, Caitlin couldn't help smiling. She was starting to like Iris. Iris made sense. "My sentiments, exactly."

"Shit, I knew it," Iris sighed. "I should've stopped him earlier, but it's too late now. There's no stopping him once he gets into planning. Although if it's any consolation, he hasn't gone this all-out since… Well, _since_. And there isn't even any occasion. Can you imagine what sort of production number he'll come up with if there _is_ an occasion?"

"I'd really rather not," Caitlin said, wincing. "If it's going to involve a grand public display of affection, it's going to be a nightmare."

"Not a fan of PDA, huh?" Iris said. "This must be really uncomfortable for you. I mean, people have been talking nonstop about what he's doing. I've lost count of how many times someone came up to me to ask about"—here she made quotation marks in the air—"'Barry's new girl.'"

Caitlin must have made a face, because Iris nodded sympathetically and said, "Yeah, I know. I was 'Eddie's new girl' for some time, too, although for some reason he was never 'Iris's new guy.' Ingrained sexism, that's what it is. Really subtle, too, and harder to root out, but since women empowerment is having a moment—right, I'm ranting. Sorry. Bad habit."

"It's fine," she said. "I'm used to ramblers."

"Ranters," Iris corrected with a smile. "Wouldn't want to be lumped in the same category as Barry. At least I don't lose my main point while talking."

Caitlin smiled. "He _is_ prone to that."

"Don't I know it. Sometimes I just tune out until like, three hundred words later, when he finds it again. Come to think of it, I shouldn't have tuned him out when he was spouting all those nonsense ideas… I might've been able to stop him from doing all this…"

"Is there really no way to ask him to stop with the gifts?" Caitlin said tentatively. "The sticky notes are okay, just not… this production number, as you called it."

Iris paused. "I could try to talk to him again," she said. "And anyway, isn't he supposed to be giving you space?"

"Yes, well. Obviously he failed. I even have less literal space in my room now."

Iris laughed. "That's true."

They fell into a brief, comfortable silence.

"Hey, Caitlin," Iris eventually said, "thanks for being honest. I know it sounds like I'm selling my best friend out, but it's just, he _really_ likes you, and I don't want him to screw himself over. He can be really eager, you know? When he's excited he just jumps into things without thinking. Loses all sense of timing and subtlety, too."

Iris paused as if debating whether or not to continue, but before Caitlin could come up with a response to fill in the silence, she went on. "His mom and dad were also really big on romance," she said. "We grew up watching them trying to out-surprise each other on their anniversary and on Valentine's Day. It was crazy, the things his dad did. Once, he decorated their whole house with flowers, because his mom absolutely adored flowers. This other time, he ordered chocolates from France, Sweden, Belgium—you know, places where those fancy chocolates come from—and made it look like a chocolate buffet from around the world.

"His mom was like that, too. She used to throw him these themed surprise parties. There was one party where she invited everyone—his former patients, his students, his colleagues from the hospital, his colleagues from whatever medical association he was part of—and she had someone from each group give him a toast. He was so teary-eyed at the end that he couldn't give a proper thank-you speech."

Iris sighed. "His parents had something really special, you know? Even my dad thought so. Everyone who knew them thought so. The happiest couple in the world, people would call them."

Caitlin absorbed all this in silence. "He does look like someone who grew up surrounded by that kind of love," she murmured.

"Yeah," Iris said, smiling. "He was such a happy kid. Still is, actually. And I think—and this is pure speculation," she added, "but I think that more than having a great career, more than being rich or famous or successful, more than _anything,_ really, Barry wants what his parents had. I'm not telling you should fulfil that," she added quickly. "I just want you to understand where he's coming from."

"I understand," she said slowly. "This is a lot to take in, though. As you can see, I'm the antithesis of that picture of his parents you just described."

Iris laughed. "Yeah, that's pretty clear to me. And honestly, I don't think he'll want you any other way. Just give him time to adjust."

"Alright," she said. "Thank you for… talking to me. To be honest, I wasn't sure how to proceed with all this."

"Oh, no problem," Iris said, waving a hand. "If you need help with Barry—or anything, really—you can message me any time." She stood up. "Anyway, I should go. You have class, right?"

"In an hour, yes," Caitlin said, accompanying her to the door.

"Hey, maybe in the future, we could do a double date or something," Iris said. "You and Barry and me and Eddie. I'll take you to all the best hole-in-the-wall places. A lot of the owners know me already, so I get discounts, too. It'll be fun. What do you think?"

Caitlin blinked. "Okay," she said.

"Great," Iris smiled and squeezed her arm. Caitlin tried not to shy away from it. "I'll go talk to Barry before he brews tomorrow's disaster. See you around, Caitlin."

When she left, Caitlin returned to her desk. Well. That was strange, but not entirely unwelcome, especially since Iris herself had offered to talk to Barry. She also found herself relieved that she could get along with Iris. She wasn't exactly the friendliest of people, but Iris had enough friendly in her for the two of them.

"Now," Caitlin muttered, staring at Beary's placid smiling face, "what to do with you? You're going to want to stick around, huh? A real nuisance you are, just like your namesake…"

She stopped abruptly when she realized that she was talking to an inanimate object, and then squinted warily at Beary. She was beginning to be gripped by this whole stuffed-animal craze, and she wasn't sure what she felt about that…

 **. . .**

"Cait? Hey Cait, bananas!"

Caitlin looked up from her laptop. "What? What's happening?"

"Ha, got you to look!" Felicity grinned triumphantly. "You ready to sleep? I'm going to kill the lights now."

Caitlin gave her friend an odd look, but, being used to such antics (or Felicitisms), she merely saved her file and slipped her laptop onto her table. "Yeah, sure."

The lights went out. Felicity shuffled to her bed, and Caitlin heard her fold her glasses and place them on her bedside table with a soft _thunk._

A few moments later, Caitlin ventured, "Hey. Are you sleepy?"

"No, not really." Felicity turned to face her. Her face was blurry in the moonlight. "Are you?"

"No." She paused. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, okay. Shoot."

"Remember that story I told you, the one Iris told about Barry's parents?"

"Mmm. What about it?"

"It bothers me."

"Why?"

Caitlin curled further into her side. Had she been talking to Felicity during the day, with Cisco and Jax with them, she might not have said this out loud. But now, wrapped up in her blanket and enveloped by the warm, inviting darkness of their room, filled with the well-worn and well-loved things they had shared for over two years, Caitlin felt brave enough to be vulnerable.

"He wants a happy ending," she said. "I don't think I'm that happy ending. He needs someone who can match his… exuberance, I guess. His generosity. Someone who'll give him what his parents had. I… don't think I'm capable of it."

"Hey, you don't know that," Felicity said. "You haven't even started dating yet."

Caitlin sighed. "I think that's the point. We haven't started dating yet and we're already incompatible," she said. "At first, I thought admitting my feelings was a bad idea because _I_ didn't want to get hurt, but now I think it's a bad idea because I don't want _him_ to get hurt. I don't want to disappoint him."

"Ah," Felicity said. "So you don't think you're good enough for him?"

"Well, more like I'm not right enough for him."

"Mmm, I see. I think I get it. I still feel that way with Oliver sometimes."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Well, we haven't been together for long, but still." Felicity wrapped her arms around her pillow. "I was terrified, remember? And you were terrified for me, too. Told me that if I had any common sense, I'd walk away from him _right this instant_ before things got too serious."

Caitlin smiled. "Fortunately for Oliver, you had zero common sense."

"Yeah," she smiled. "But you know, sometimes when I'm with him and I'm feeling really happy, I get hit by this wave of panic. Like, I start thinking, _It's impossible for anyone to be this happy_ _…_ _One day he's probably going to cheat on me or get bored with me and break up with me… Oh my God, if he does, I'll never find someone like him again, I'll never be this happy again…_ and so on."

"You still think about that?" Caitlin said, incredulous. "Have you seen the way he looks at you? When you're in the room he literally cannot focus on anything else."

"Yeah," Felicity said, with a modest shrug, "but I guess sometimes we sabotage our own happiness."

Caitlin moved to lie on her back. "I think I've felt what you've felt with Oliver," she said quietly. "I just feel… so _light_ with Barry. Or happy, I suppose. I'm not sure. But I know that when I'm with him, I don't want the moment to end. And when I saw him with Patty—I told you about that, right?"

"Mmm."

"When I saw him with Patty, I was devastated. But there was this small part of me that was almost… _gleeful_ about it. It's hard to explain, but that part of me seemed to be saying, _You knew this would happen. You were right, he'll never like you. Good thing you didn't get too attached._ "

"Right, right. Sometimes I hear that voice in my head, too."

"Why does it do that?" Caitlin said, confused and frustrated. "Why does our mind do that? Why is it that when we're happy, our first instinct is to be skeptical of happiness?"

Felicity was quiet for a moment. "Maybe our mind is trying to protect us from getting hurt," she said. "Maybe we only open a little part of ourselves up to happiness so that when it leaves, it doesn't take all of us with it."

Her words sank into the darkness of the room.

"Or, wait, no," Felicity said. "If Oliver breaks up with me, I'll be devastated and I'll probably cry for days, and the part of me that was only me around him will be gone, but… I don't think that means I'm less of a person if he leaves. I won't be left with like, only a few pieces of my heart or something. Pretty sure I'm stronger than that."

"You definitely are."

"Thanks," her friend said, smiling. "So I guess what I'm trying to say is… we try to protect ourselves from that one painful moment that we think we won't be strong enough to withstand. For me it's Oliver breaking up with me, and for you it's probably disappointing Barry. And we sort of obsess over it, that painful moment, because we'll do anything to prevent it. And when we do that, we forget to enjoy whatever's happening now. Or that even if that moment _does_ happen, we can and will survive it."

"Like having tunnel vision," Caitlin murmured. "Being scared of the pain is like having tunnel vision. You stop seeing possibilities around you."

"Yeah," Felicity said. "Yeah, something like that."

"You're saying that I should give this thing with Barry a real chance, aren't you?"

Felicity grinned. " _I'm_ saying that, or you are?"

"Touché."

Her friend propped herself up on her elbows to give her a serious look. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy," she said. "You guys have a lot to talk about. I mean, flowers and chocolates and teddy bears are sweet, but they're just not your thing."

"So I heard. Apparently it's common knowledge for everyone besides him."

"Ironic, huh?" Felicity said. "But don't worry, I think he's just excited now so he can't think straight, but he means well. He really wants to make you happy."

"I suppose so."

"And if he can't see you behind all those romantic notions of his, believe me, I'll be the first one to tell you to stop trying."

Caitlin gave her friend a smile. "Thanks."

There was a lull in the conversation.

"Think we should go to sleep now?"

"Yeah, we probably should," Felicity said, pulling her blankets to her chin. "Oh, before I forget, Oliver says thanks for the Smirnoff."

"Tell him he's welcome."

"You traitors," Felicity yawned. "Scheming behind my back."

"Good night to you too, Felicity."

Her friend smiled and buried her face in her pillow. "Good night, Cait."


End file.
